Do you ever cross paths with old high school friends that you haven’t seen for a long time? Recently, I’ve had the pleasure of reconnecting with Dianne. We were in choir together, singing under the tyrannical (but beloved) baton of Mr. Kicklighter. Dianne and I sang together from 6th grade till 12th. She was teeny-weeny. Maybe five feet tall. She always had a bright smile, even on the darkest days. But what I remember most about Dianne? She taught this white girl to dance.
In study hall, when our time was our own, my studious friends (of which I was blessed with many) crammed for tests or caught up with homework. I worked on my socialization skills, flitting around like a house wren, talking to everybody. But on rare occasions, we danced.
You see, Mr. Kicklighter not only conducted the school choir, he also taught music history classes and kept a record player handy for sharing the dulcet tones of Bach and Beethoven (Buxtehude for when he was feeling real froggy). But during study hall, Mr. Kicklighter retired to his dim office to puff his pipe and consider the vastness of the universe, leaving us unattended.
For the most part we behaved (choir kids are notorious goody two-shoes) but every now and again someone would bring in a forty-five record and fill study hall with funky bass. Then we would dance. Looking back, I understand that blasting “Play that Funky Music White Boy” didn’t really create an environment for study, but I’m sure it enhanced our ability to feel rhythm, which was a lesson that even Mr. Kicklighter would have approved of.
Dianne was my favorite dancing friend. She taught me latest steps, but most importantly, she taught me how to loosen up my stiff limbs and move without inhibition. She told me “move like the music sounds.” And I have remembered that since.
Dianne and I started singing together in fifth grade but we were schoolmates since the first grade. In 1969 when Carrollton schools became integrated, the black community and the white community, which up until that point in time had existed like separate universes, came together. It was like two rivers that had flowed side by side for centuries were suddenly diverted to flow together. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a historic year to start school.
Since then we’ve seemed like a single community. We’ve gone to school together. We’ve played sports together. We’re friends on Facebook. So, I always thought our community was strong and unified. Until about five years ago when a black man was shot by a white police officer. I knew this kind of thing happened in places like Oakland and Chicago. I’d seen what happened when fear and frustration consumed a community, but I never dreamed I’d see it here in Carrollton. Facebook lit up like a Christmas tree. People said crazy things like “I heard they’re going to start a protest on the square” and “if they try and break in on me, they’re going to find my shotgun.” Our little town went from “Mayberry” to “Survivor” in 60 seconds flat.
The police department moved quickly (at the advice of the GBI) to post the audio from the officer’s dash cam on social media, so we could all hear that the shooting was self-defense (the other man had a gun in a holster and was trying to draw it out). Eventually, fear abated and things settled back down. But I never forgot how quickly the schism between the black and white communities widened, seizing the residents of our town with mistrust.
Fear happens when we face the unknown. So lately, I’ve been being intentional about reaching a hand across that schism and getting to know a more diverse group of people. I’ve invited folks to supper, attended people’s churches, sung in different choirs. And because of the simple act of reaching out, my world has opened up with rich diversity, strengthening both myself and my connections into the community.
I’m not the only one that’s reaching out. One of my favorite (and most powerful) examples of this is the friendship of Chief Richards and Pastor Dortch. About four years ago, Pastor Dortch approached Chief Richards about an African American congregant who felt a family member had been treated badly by a white officer. Since then, the two men have worked together to unite African American pastors with Carrollton City Police. Pastors attend the Citizen’s Academy so they can learn about the difficult job of policing. The officers invite the pastors to a monthly lunch where friendships are made and our community is strengthened.
Which brings me back to Dianne. I’m singing with her again – Sunday night at the MLK Ecumenical Service. My frozen-chosen Presbyterians are joining our stiff Bach-trained voices with Victory Tabernacle’s joyful Gospel songs. For the past three weeks, we’ve been practicing and enjoying getting to know each other. During rehearsal the other day, Brother Chip led us as we all sang together, “The storm is passing over, the storm is passing over, Hallelujah!” We combined our voices into beautiful, colorless Praise and the power of it brought me to grateful tears.