Share the Table

people eating dinner share the table

Pexels/fauxels

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 …

About the Author

Paul Sutherland

Paul Sutherland resides in Michigan with his four youngest kids, ages 5 to 10. He and his wife, Amy, try to be an example of Parenting for a Peaceful world, in which democracy begins at home.

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