“Don’t Trust White People”

I Was a Child

“Don’t trust white people,” my mother had said.

My parents immigrated to the United States in the 1950s — my mother from the Bahamas, my dad from Guyana, South America. A product of what we today call “chain migration,” my mom’s Uncle Vivian, who had married an American woman, sponsored my parents to come to the US. They entered through the south, ultimately settling in Cleveland, Ohio amongst Uncle Vivian’s family. They didn’t know anyone else.

They started with almost nothing. My mother used her sewing and crafts skills to build a small home business. Almost all of her clients were white. Many were affluent, stay-at-home moms. They became her friends. My dad worked his way up from Store Clerk to Supervisor at A&P, a popular grocery store chain. He was very well liked and knew almost every customer. They became his friends. My parents had a gift for connecting with anyone. They were well liked; family and friends trusted them.

I lost my best friend the day after I turned six, my dad. I hate that I can’t remember a lot of details about him, but I am content feeling a spirit of goodness every day. People who knew him share many stories of Myrtle Oswald Ashby, the man, the father, the husband. He’s not often seen in old family videos and pictures. He was the photographer. Through the few photos of him, I can agree with what everyone says about my dad. The spirit I felt from him, other peoples’ recall, and the photographs connected, affirming who he was: a decent and honest man. I miss him. I always wonder if my life would’ve been different if he had lived longer.

A month after dad died, my mother suffered a brain aneurysm. She almost died. I can’t remember ever fearing the thought of losing both parents; it was the bliss of childhood ignorance, I guess. I do remember the trip to Walt Disney World, Orlando during the resort’s grand opening year. My mom wanted to make us feel better after losing our dad, and almost losing her too. It worked. I believed dreams could come true. I can still see Cinderella’s castle in my mind’s eye. It was magical. I was a child.

Within a year of my dad’s passing, we left Cleveland and moved to Nassau, Bahamas. My mom struggled as a single parent with three young children in a country still too unfamiliar. She needed support and my brothers and I experienced life amongst our large, chaotic family. It was wonderful, with so much unconditional love. Living on the small island again, my mother was reminded of the reasons she and my dad had moved to America. They wanted to expand our perspectives, open opportunities, and give us room to grow. We moved backed to Cleveland three years later. I’ve been in the United States ever since.

Survival kicked in immediately, my mother knowing her liabilities and her strengths living in America. She resurrected plans she and my dad started years before. She wasn’t financially stable, but received a settlement after my father’s death. His brain tumor was misdiagnosed. She secured a house in a predominately Jewish neighborhood, which was a valuable investment and calculated risk, considering we were the first black family to reside there. She reconnected with old clients, grew her cottage industry into a local craft store, even earning segments on the morning television shows for unmatched craftmanship. This flexible lifestyle allowed her to still be mom, with taking care of her children as top priority.

Our life had changed quickly. We were around loving family one day and strangers the next. White families became more prevalent in all of our lives. We had to drive over thirty minutes to see my mother’s uncle and his family. I wasn’t as aware at the time, but we were living in suburban America, Cleveland Heights, Ohio.

Still too young to understand all that occurred in my childhood, I remember clients, who became friends, talking with my mom when they came to visit. I knew it was adult talk when my mom would say, “Honey, go to your room.” When I hesitated, she would use my middle name and make it clear that this was not a conversation for children, “Nerissa, you and I are not company.” I would excuse myself. The whispers were unintelligible, but made more clear when she talked later on the phone with her family back home. I heard parts of my mom’s conversations about white people.

“He’s got a sweetheart on the side. Yes, she knows.”

“He’s stealing from people. The boss, her husband. She said he wasn’t even smart.”

“She lied about that man. They seem to lie so much. Always making up stories.”

“I think something is wrong with that child. They don’t talk about it. So many secrets.”

“They just let him get away with it. No one said anything. Doesn’t bother them.”

I will never forget the bits and pieces of those conversations. Every time a client would come by the house or to the craft store, I’d wonder if they had a story or if I overheard it already. My mom always seemed surprised about the behaviors of white people, as they were in conflict with her values and beliefs. I never asked my mom about what I overheard. I felt those were private conversations. The full context of the situation was never clear. It was none of my business. I wasn’t “company.” My mom told me the stories of two friends. One finally left her husband and our outings with their family changed. The other was being abused by her husband; and my mom had to tell me. I heard it once.

“Don’t trust white people,” was backed up with, “Never be jealous of what your friends have because you never know where it came from or what they had to do to get it.” She’d say, “You never know what’s going on in people’s homes” and “Don’t believe everything you see or hear, it’s not always what it appears.” Direct words. I was a child.

Feeling oddly aware that the statements from my mom could hurt people, I kept them a secret. But, I wondered, if she didn’t trust white people, then why did we live in a predominately white neighborhood, go to predominately white schools, and live around mainly white people? What was she doing? Was this part of the plan she and my dad devised long ago?

She grounded us in Christian values, a guidebook for expected behavior. And, always reminded us that the world is not fair, but that you have to do the right thing anyway, “God knows and sees all things, he will right any wrongs.”

Our faith guided us. It gave us rules to live by.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Forgive them O’Lord, for they know not what they do.

Love thy neighbor as thyself.

Hate is a reflection of the giver not the receiver. Show love; they need it.

When you’ve been blessed, be a blessing to others.

Give others grace and mercy. We are all sinners.

Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.

Humble yourself unto the Lord.

The love of money is the root of all evil.

You are not responsible for how they act, you are responsible for how you act.

Love conquers all.

There were so many lessons, one for any experience in my life. I thought disobeying would lead me to hell. I felt accountable for my actions, worked hard to be kind to others, and owned up to my mistakes, because when the Lord comes, “You will never know what he will look like.” I could recite dozens of her teachings. She made sure I’d never forget.

The, “Don’t trust white people,” message battled with our lessons and contrasted with my mom’s actions. I was a child.

My mom welcomed everyone into our home. She made plans with many white friends and their families, sincerely enjoying all of our relationships. She shared English tea time, introduced white people to her Bahamian heritage, the traditions rooted in British culture. She talked about her life, hoping they’d reciprocate. She turned her tea time into a sort of “support group,” providing respite for many people living troubled lives. She gave them a new perspective. They were fascinated with her approach. She wished she could reach out more. She was an immigrant with an eighth-grade education. How could she possibly understand their lives?

My mom was not a racist. She was a realist. She understood more than they knew.

My mom knew exactly what she was doing as a parent and stayed deliberate in her approach. Preparing us for an American existence fraught with deceit and inconsistencies, saving us became her mission. Mom understood white people compromised values and beliefs for power and economics and connected how dangerous it could be to us. She experienced injustice and learned the “tricks of the trade,” directly from its creators. Protecting us, my mom calculated the risk of how much to share, and when or how. She made a choice. She set clear directives and repeated it in various ways, every day. The stuff in between the lines became more clear as I got older.

“Be careful of white people. Don’t blindly trust them. Trust me. I’m your mom, no one will be more honest with you than me. You are responsible for your actions. Do unto others. Forgive them for they know not what they do. Vengeance is not yours. Love conquers all.” It was like a spell.

After college, my mom thought I had been brainwashed by the university and said I didn’t sound like myself. Spell broken. We argued a lot. She tried to regain influence in my life as I battled for independence. I reconciled the conflicts of trust, faith, and feelings about white people. I trusted, first. But, I understood her. I experienced racism, injustice and hate. I learned it for myself. I chose to lead with love. Doesn’t it conquer all?

I was naïve.

My life continued. The more I progressed, the more I saw. Holding onto my faith, I persevered reminding myself I was not accountable for other people’s actions. I lived. I worked. I was rewarded for my contributions and mentored by some of the best in the hospitality industry. I was featured in Black Enterprise Magazine, “The Rising Stars of Disney.” I had smart friends living great lives. We travelled the world and spent special occasions together. And they weren’t just white friends, but friends of all kinds. I trusted them. I even met my husband through my professional-turned-personal relationships. I loved his ascent from a low income beginning. He loved my natural optimism and cautioned my naiveté, like my mom.

A series of events occurred. I can’t talk about the details right now, maybe never. Revelations of wrongdoing at the hands of white people could unravel innocent lives. There was damage done.

I saw first-hand how deception and greed damaged lives. Forever. In every area of my life, I witnessed all that my mother warned me about. Systems created by white people disenfranchised others and hurt people. Their stated values were not congruent with their actions. Lies. I couldn’t escape it. Once it was clear to me, it became all consuming. It was everywhere. I trusted white people first. So, what now?

Having children was a game changer. I stopped working full-time. My husband and I prioritized their well-being over our own. We were the best teachers of the lessons handed down from our parents. No one could deliver them the way we could. “Life will get hard but God is in control. He will make what was designed for your harm a footstool to your greatness. Haters see your potential. Respect them. They are a sign you are on the right track. Don’t get distracted by the noise. That’s the devil trying get you off track; he doesn’t attack the weak ones. Keep moving forward. God has a plan for your life.”

My husband and I modernized other messages and pointed out obstacles. Like a video game, we gave them “cheat codes” to help them survive as black kids in America. Their life depended on it. As black parents, we had to tell them stories of police brutality before they started going out with friends. “Police will treat you differently. Your friends may not back you up. Here is what to do,” we’d say. We had strategies for all aspects of life, like video games progressively more difficult at each stage. “Be careful of the witch disguised as a princess; you could lose your life.” We are still teaching. Current events reveal more than we ever thought.

The reality of racism in America is on full display. Over the last several years, I’ve been aware of society’s habits more than any other time of my life. Progress can be halted by a single vote. The new awareness has allowed me to pause, reflect on my life, and make connections I never would have before. The lies, the pandemic, the injustice, the racism, and economics over humanity, led me to tell my own children recently, “Don’t trust white people.” It’s not hate. It’s love, a warning to proceed with caution.

Trust second; it should be earned. God first.