Life isn’t about hogging the last bread roll—it’s about sharing the table.
When I was around 12, we
lived very near the zoo in Detroit, off Woodward Avenue. My dad had finished
his work at an orphanage for boys. He had, I think, realized that while being a
social worker for a small charity was fulfilling, it could not make sure that
his six kids were able to have real milk on their oatmeal each morning instead
of reconstituted powdered milk. He took a job running a well-funded religious
school in a richer area of Detroit.
When I was a
kid, segregation was even more pronounced in the Detroit area than it is today.
My dad lived and saw segregation and its ill effects on society. He had grown
up during the Depression on a few acres of dirt farm.
By the time I
was 12 he had worked with the financially poor and the financially rich. He
had, I think, seen it all. My dad was a sensitive guy. He cried in movies, had
tears in his eyes when my sister and brothers were born.
My dad did not
wish for us to grow up racist, tribal, intolerant, biased, or as bigots. My
feminist mom agreed with that and made sure we had plenty of fodder to realize
that women could do any …