I’m not sure exactly when I discovered I was prejudiced, but it came as a shock. In fact, my prejudices continue to show up at the most inopportune times. And I’m always shocked. “Where did that come from?” Well, I guess some of it may be in my DNA—you know, “the children unto the third and fourth generation...,” but some came from my environment.

Innocence

My earliest recollection was in 1957. I was riding on a bus with my mother through our town—Bremerton, Washington. I had been praying for a baby sister, and there was evidence that my prayers were being answered. I anxiously awaited the delivery and wondered what my new baby sister would be like.

A woman with the most beautiful baby I had ever seen sat in the seat behind us. I remember turning around on my knees to get a better look. Yep, that was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. And with all the enthusiasm of an expectant five-year-old, I blurted out for everyone on the bus to hear, “Mommy, I want a baby sister just like that one.”

Both mothers were embarrassed, and the rest of the passengers were quite amused. I didn’t understand. I had no point of reference. I learned the mother and baby were Negroes, and what I had requested just wasn’t going to happen.

Ignorance

The next thing I recall, in my sequence of influences were two ceramic figures hanging on the wall of Grandma Burns’ kitchen. Every time I sat at her kitchen table, I couldn’t keep my eyes from looking up at two of the blackest little children, with the whitest teeth, eating the reddest watermelon I had ever seen. I learned that they were little n_ _ _ _ _ children.

They looked a little bit like the man I had seen on TV who sang on his knees, and said, “Mammy.” I also recalled those nice people who cooked and danced for Shirley Temple.

When I was eight years old, Dad decided to quit work at the Naval shipyard to get a college education. So we moved near the college where Grandma Burns lived. I enjoyed stopping at her house on the way home from school for a treat. She always had candy, but I also enjoyed eating from her tin of mixed nuts. My favorites were n_ _ _ _ _ toes.

Sometime, before we moved to California where Dad finished his physical therapy degree, I vaguely remember seeing a Negro family at church. I believe that was my first discovery that there were Adventist Negroes.

My fascination with news images began with the assassination of John F. Kennedy, U.S. president. School was dismissed that afternoon, and I was glued to the "tube" the rest of the day.

Sometimes, the news brought images of a man named King. We saw hundreds of Negroes walking across bridges and through towns. And there were some very angry White people yelling at them while angry sheriffs and policemen tried to stop them. But that happened a long ways away.

Involved

The summer my dad finished school the news showed part of Los Angeles on fire. It was only about 45 minutes away. So, after church, we climbed in the station wagon and drove to Watts, a section in south Los Angeles, to see what was going on. We followed the black smoke to an awful neighborhood where we saw soldiers with rifles and tanks rolling down streets of broken and burning buildings. I couldn’t believe what I saw. We passed a man who threw something through a store window and then ran away with a TV set. I didn’t understand, and my parents couldn’t answer my questions. We drove home in silence.

Two months later we moved to Ohio because dad had accepted a position at Kettering Hospital. We were the first of our family to leave the West Coast. Mom had nine brothers and sisters and lots of nieces and nephews. We had always been together for holidays and camp meeting, too. She cried most of the way.

We arrived on a Friday afternoon in October and found a cheap motel on Dixie Highway. Sunday morning Dad turned the TV on, and the people on the screen were Black. We were curious. We had never heard such sweet music before. The man in the chair had the biggest, most welcoming smile. He talked about Jesus and how He was coming soon.

As the program ended, we learned we had been watching “At Home with Brother James.” He invited viewers to visit the Dale Wright Memorial Church.

The following Sabbath afternoon, Dad took us on a drive to get familiar with this new part of the country. We crossed the river and passed farm after farm. As we drove down Conservancy Road, we were surprised to see the house we had seen on TV. It was the home of “Brother James.” We wondered if we were close to the church.

Just down the road we saw the sign at the base of a gravel drive that led to the little church on the hill. Dad hesitated, then turned up the drive to an empty parking lot. We were about to leave when Dale Jr. came out and introduced himself. We told him we were just out for a drive and recognized the house from the TV. He seemed pleased. He said we were welcome to stick around because a youth program was going to begin in just a little while. We did.

Our lives were dramatically changed. We found family—Grandma and Grandpa Wright, Uncle Harold (Brother James) and Aunt Eleanor, Paul and Bessie, William, Audrey, Eileen, and of course, Uncle Walt and Aunt Jackie. They loved us, embraced us, fed us, and made us feel welcome and at home.

Informed

When the riots broke out in Dayton the following summer, we gained a new perspective and context from our new family. While worshiping together, we shared the tears of grief the Sabbath after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. We were beginning to understand.

We learned new ways to express our faith and began to celebrate the Sabbath—to celebrate the fact that we had made it through another week. We looked forward to the meetings at the little church where we were spiritually refreshed and challenged.

It was the beginning of the learning process. Learning what it feels like to be called n _ _ _ _ _ and n _ _ _ _ _ lover. Learning that your friends can’t go Ingathering or prayer walking with you in certain parts of town. Learning that your classmate’s new house was attacked with rotten eggs the night before because she wasn’t welcome in the neighborhood. Learning that yours is the first White family your friend has ever stayed with.

The more I learn... the more I listen... the more I experience... the more I question... the more I realize that I have so much more to learn about people, about race, and about culture—Kingdom Culture.

So, that’s why I’m prejudiced. Why are you?

Gary Burns is the Lake Union Conference communication director.