On Racial Justice, Pt. 2
WE HAVE THE POWER TO BEGIN THE WORLD OVER AGAIN
By Carol Bousquet, August 23, 2020

I believe we are finally at THE day of reckoning. Finally we have conditions and
consciousness to change the course of history in the ways our African American,
Descendants of Africans Enslaved in the U.S., brothers and sisters deserve — our
Constitution dictates, and that they’ve been struggling for since the beginning of our
nation. We finally have the opportunity to advance Dr. King’s vision, to dismantle the
strangle-hold of racial capitalism, oppression, and white supremacy. We can begin to
repair. We can begin to make right.
As Dr. Carl McCargo said during General Assembly in a panel “Reparations: Rooted in
Repair”, (I’m para-phrasing) “…to repair__ the damages wrought by African chattel
slavery__we must understand … and strategize repairs to individuals and reshape
institutions. Reparations are a requisite to spiritual healing.”
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I hereby invite you, church members, friends and neighbors, wherever you reside, to
join Kate Ruzecki and I, as we co-facilitate an online-six-week Small Group Racial
Justice Ministry starting in September. “We have the power to begin the world over
again.” And, that time is now.
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I grew up in Springfield, MA, actually Indian Orchard, a small enclave of Springfield, off
the Ludlow Turnpike exit, where, by virtue of alphabetical order I sat next to Cynthia
Beatty in first through sixth grade, Beatty – Bousquet. She, a black girl, and I became
the best of friends. We loved each other! I was included warmly and was always made
welcome in her home. Once, I invited Cynthia to my house. My mother was polite, but I
sensed uncomfortable while Cynthia and I played. When Cynthia left to go home, my
mother watched craning her neck at the window until Cynthia was on the street. She
turned to me, crying – it was the first time I ever saw my mother cry! She said to me,
“Don’t ever bring her or any “colored” people here again!” My six or seven-year-old self
was dumbfounded. I asked why? She said “because they don’t belong here, they have
their own neighborhoods. We don’t mix with them.” She was craning her neck to see if
any neighbors saw Cynthia, a six-year-old black girl, leaving our home.
My parents, my father was complicit, created in that moment an anti-racist.
I was brought up Catholic. I went to “catechism” school every week where the nuns,
drilled us on learning the Ten Commandments. There was a great deal of emphasis by
all the adults I knew to know them and to know what they meant.
When my mother told my six or seven-year-old self that day I could not have “colored”
friends in my house nor should I be seen with “colored” friends in the community it
marked the beginning of an existential discussion that I’ve not relented from. I never
relented from challenging my parents and the other adults around me: how could they
say this or that racist thing when we are taught to Love Thy Neighbor; when we’re told
that Jesus loves and protects every lamb in his flock?
What I did learn was the meaning of hypocrisy, what prejudice is, what racism is, what
hate looks and feels like.
I was ten-years old in 1964. My family watched the news and read papers, we had
subscriptions to Look and Life magazines. There was a revolution underway!
I was in Jr. High when “bussing” began in Springfield. Black children were bussed out of
the inner-city; white children were not bussed into the inner city. Our parents made sure
of that.
I love to tell the story of one of my older brothers, Paul, who was a talented keyboardist.
While Paul was in high school he would substitute occasionally for a very popular band,
The Bostels. The Bostels were made up of four white guys and four black guys. They
sang fantastic soul music in the style of the Temptations. They wore fancy coordinated
suits and choreographed their dance routines. They made a record too. They were very
popular throughout New England. The band liked my brother’s playing better than their
regular keyboardist and they asked Paul to join the band full-time. My parents wouldn’t
allow it because he was still in high school. The band and Paul mounted a campaign to
change my parents’ minds. The next time I saw a black person in my home after
Cynthia Beatty, was when I saw the band stuffed into my parents tiny living room! They
were attempting to reassure my parents that they’d take good care of Paul if they’d
please allow him to join their band. After about a month of this, my parents called a
meeting with Paul finally relenting. I was eavesdropping from the next room, of course.
They said, “We’ve decided to let you join the band but there will be ground rules. Among
others they said you know we like to go out dancing, they were avid square dancers, so
when you’re playing locally, you’ll have to take your sister –me. THAT was music to my
ears! The year was 1965. I was eleven. So, I was consigned to being a groupie to my
brother’s band. I spent many occasions watching my brother play in the band and, of
course, dancing with other groupie-family members. We all had some wonderful years!
It was all innocent. One day in Junior High a couple of my girlfriends, some of whom
joined me when I went with my brother’s band, came to me and said, “You’re getting a
reputation as a “N-lover” and if you don’t stop we won’t hang around you anymore.” And
these were the nice girls! My reply was something along the lines of, “oh well, not my
problem.” I remember communicating how disappointed I was in them. I made a mental
note to find new friends, which I did.
I started high school in 1968 and had to bus into downtown. That fall I got a taste of
school spirit attending football games w/ the ritual high school band and all that goes
with it. Life was very promising and exciting for this freshman. For all of us.
On April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. One day shortly after his
assassination I was startled to watch some black men, strangers, run into my school
cafeteria at lunch time where they started picking up chairs and throwing them
indiscriminately at us. I was in the midst of a violent race riot. There were four high
schools in the downtown; the same thing happened at the same time at all of them. The
riots spread to the streets, just like we’re seeing now. The mayor called for a curfew.
School was canceled.
When we finally did return to school, there were police in full-riot gear on every floor in
my high school, spectators at all sporting events were banned, the year book shrunk to
a few pages, and interaction between students was fraught with racial tension – for the
balance of my time in high school.
I rode to and from school on the bus with my friend Cynthia Beatty. We’d compare notes
on the violence we were witnessing.
The assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who I share a birthdate with, — the riots,
my black experience, and the hypocrisy and prejudice of the white people I knew
combined to inspire me and has lasted my lifetime.
Informed by my hero Dr. King and other black activists, the “radical” Angela Davis,
James Baldwin, and the times as recorded by the media — I sought opportunities to at
least show up where I could, to cultivate relationships, to have conversations rather than
practice avoidance, which was all too common in my white world.
I became a lifeguard and swimming instructor at the state swimming pool in Blunt Park –
– the black neighborhood. I had a blast for a couple summers teaching the little ones
and some adults how to swim. I shared my coconut oil sunscreen, the kids loved using it
on their “ashy” skin. They used to tease me saying, we know it’s you because we can
smell you coming!
Out of the mouths of babes, there were numerous times the little ones might ask, “Hey,
you’re white! How come you’re here? My parents, family, and friends — would just shake
their heads.
I went to Holyoke Community College where I qualified for a financial aid grant program
for minorities; my gender and financial situation qualified me. We were required to do
peer counseling and to meet regularly for peer support required by the grant. That was
important to me, the first of seven children to get a college education.
The director of that program and his secretary, Frances Hunter, were black; as was
mostly everyone in the program, a minority. Some of my peers in that program decided
to start an African American Club. I remember being somewhat anxious that they might
not want me — but I was asked to join, to be their token white. I was thrilled. I made
lifelong friends there – and we shared some great adventures!
As time went by, post-graduation, I became the grant program secretary and the AfroAm Club advisor, Frances’s roommate. I was a driving instructor at the time. She grew
up in Manhattan, never needed to drive, but now that she lived in the ‘burbs did. I
commenced teaching Frances how to drive, we deepened our friendship, we became
roommates. Frances was Duke Ellington’s personal secretary for the last eight years of
his life. She grew up in his household, The Duke’s sister and Frances went to school
together; when The Duke died and Frances lost that job she relocated to the Springfield
area.
Having dinner with my roommate Frances was an exercise in musical and black history.
We’d play records at mealtimes and she would recall that time The Duke said this or
Johnny Mercer said that and more. I wished in 1975 I had an iPhone to record some of
those conversations! We traveled to Berklee College of Music to hear The Duke
Ellington Band, conducted by his son Mercer Ellington, where Frances was warmly
received and I was introduced and treated as someone special that I was watching out
for Frances!
Brace yourselves: Frances’ best friend in life was the famous Dr. Don Shirley. You may
have learned about him from the 2018 movie, “The Green Book”? If you haven’t seen it,
you must! The “Negro Motorist Green Book” listed businesses that served black
travelers in the segregated South; it promised “vacation without aggravation.” Dr.
Shirley was a classically trained pianist and a child prodigy. Set in 1962, the film was
inspired by the true story of a tour Dr. Shirley undertook to attempt to overcome
prejudice in the Jim Crow South through his jazz playing! He hired Italian-American
bouncer Frank “Tony Lip” Vallelonga, who served as his driver and bodyguard. Dr.
Shirley and Frances spoke on the telephone every night, often into the whee hours.
Dr. Shirley invited Frances and I to visit him in NYC, we were given seats in the
Queen’s Box at Carnegie Hall to hear Dr. Shirley’s sold out annual recital. During our
visit, Dr. Shirley hosted Frances and I in his lavish apartment above Carnegie Hall!
Heady stuff for this girl from Indian Orchard, MA.
Some of my girlfriends in the “Afro-Am Club” formed a posse. I thank god for them, I’m
not at all sure if I’d have made it without them. I know I wouldn’t have laughed as much!
I’d joined the Holyoke Community College women’s softball team. Turns out the coach
was also in the state swimming pool system. She managed the state pool in South
Hadley. When she discovered I was a lifeguard at Blunt Park she asked me
incredulously why I worked there – “it’s a black pool?!” I feigned indifference, pretended
I didn’t understand what she was asking. She was disgusted. The overt harassment
started. She informed my teammates, all white, that I was an “N-Lover.” They, many of
whom played under this coach in their white town leagues for years, joined in the
harassment. I was often benched, treated shabbily, and I was thoroughly ostracized. I
pretended that it didn’t bother me. I just knew it was more important to show up – if only
to be a thorn.
After graduating from HCC, I nabbed a CETA (Comprehensive Employment and
Training Act) job working at Springfield’s foodbank, I helped administer the fuel
assistance program among other things. The office was in the heart of Winchester
Square — the black neighborhood. Paradoxically, it’s the neighborhood where my
parents and many of their friends and some of my relatives once lived as they started
their young families, before they could move farther out to the suburbs. They never
failed to proclaim when we drove through that part of town “how far it had come down
saying it used to be a nice neighborhood.” Can you imagine adults behaving this way?! I
know you do. It’s a perfect example of how this “system” works.
I visited people in their homes throughout the city to do a site qualification for applicants
of the fuel assistance program. I saw firsthand what poverty looked like up-close.
Elderly people huddling under blankets trying to stay warm. People of every shade and
color. I was able to see too that poverty is truly an equalizer. It doesn’t care what color
we are.
I grew comfortable in those streets and evermore committed to resisting. I sought
opportunities to mix and mingle; after all, I was a member of the African American Club,
I was a go-go girl for The Bostels – and The Revolution was well underway by now.
I attended Harambee, a popular African-American festival held in the heart of
Winchester Square. White people did not go to Harambee. Harambee is a Kenyan
tradition of community self-help events and literally means “all pull together” in Swahili.
It is also the official motto of Kenya and appears on its coat of arms. The black
attendees weren’t at all sure about this white girl being there either. It was tense.
Crowds parted to let the white girl pass. Recall it was only a few years earlier that I
graduated from high school where the halls were staffed by police in full riot gear. I felt
compelled to show up. I’m glad I did. The grandmothers reached out to me, reassured
me that I was welcome. The children saw me. It was important. Just like Martin Luther
King said.
I was able to transfer to work in another CETA position in the Mayor’s Office for Cultural
Affairs — as a Festival Planner! It was my interest in music, thanks to my early
experiences as one of the lead go-go dancers for The Bostels, that drew me to that
position! I jumped at the chance to be the liaison for our office to the Springfield Jazz
Society; I jumped at the chance to manage a talented and gifted young-artist-inresidence summer program: young inner-city kids who qualified because they were
“disadvantaged.” These kids were all of color and were absolutely gifted and talented!
The Executive Director and other staff in my office, all white except for Charles
Greenlee, slide bone extraordinaire, were flummoxed by this new grant program, even
reticent to work with these kids. I was left to myself to carve out a program with them.
We had a blast together!
I remain very seriously concerned about my hometown, Springfield. Just recently in The
Boston Globe, Sunday, July 26 edition, in a front page article titled “Fallout from probe
of Springfield police,” based on a July 8 report by the Federal DOJ, the ACLU declares
Springfield as having the worst police department in the country! We need to pay
attention. The article highlights exactly the issues being protested in cities across the
nation – except Springfield, according to the ACLU is the worst?! I am reaching out to
Gov. Baker, Springfield’s Cong. Richie Neal, Chair of House Ways & Means, and the
media to bring some – heat.
I’m sharing with you a few inconveniences in my experience.
To be sure, my experiences don’t compare on any level to what Descendants of
Africans Enslaved in the U.S. have had to endure.
I love to share this is the first Universalist church in the country. Our founding minister,
the Rev. John Murray, took town fathers to task over taxation which set a precedent for
the separation of church and state. That motivates me.
I want to be sure before we part to invite you to view The Cape Ann Slavery and
Abolition website, a creation of the Cape Ann Slavery and Abolition Trust, a
collaboration of the Gloucester Unitarian Universalist Church and the Unitarian
Universalist Society of Rockport. You’ll see how this area too was built on the backs of
our black brothers and sisters — as was our country, including the White House.
Finally, I give thanks to First Parish Church UU of Groton, MA for bequeathing the
SGRJM Curriculum to our church! We are indebted to them, especially my friend Sarah
Iaccobucci who has served as a devoted steward of this effort. First Parish UU Groton
has offered this small group sometimes twice a year for the past five years. It’s often
reported by participants to be a profound experience.
Kate and I look forward this Fall to joining you in our Racial Justice Ministry where we
will “become a little smarter.” Where we will develop our qualities of being just, impartial,
fair; we’ll explore together the principles and ideals of just dealing or right action; we’ll
help each other explore the context of Racial Justice in America today and our roles as
allies. It will be a place for honest conversation about topics and issues we may never
get to talk about in daily life yet matter deeply, especially now. Many of us have lived
our lives cushioned by “racial Illiteracy.” We are now experiencing a cultural
reawakening. If Gloucester’s Rev. John Murray could change the world — so can’t we!
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Consider: Whether you’re a human being, an insect, a microbe, or a stone, this verse is
true.
Commented [CB1]:

All that you touch, You Change. All that you Change, Changes you.
–Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower