A Connection of the Heart

Marcia Barstow

  
I grew up in Mississippi. It is not where I was born or lived as a child or adolescent, but where I experienced a loss of innocence, where I learned about how it is to seriously love someone of another culture, another race - where I learned about fear and hatred - and about truth.

My high school days were spent in a border state that believed the Supreme Court decision to desegregate schools meant just that - all students, regardless of color, were to attend school together.

We were to eat lunch, attend classes and study together; we were to play football, be cheerleaders, and go to proms together; we were to come of age together.

And so, the black school in that small, central Kentucky town was closed, and Cecelia and I became friends. I still believe we were friends, although we never shared secrets, never giggled together, never were at the same slumber parties, and were never in each others' homes. Our parents were both strong supporters of the Supreme Court decision and would not have objected to a more intimate relationship, but it did not happen. Our friendship was built on our desire that our high school would carry out desegregation well at that time in history - and on our respect for each other. When we hugged each other good-bye the night of our high school graduation, we both knew we had made a difference, but we have never seen each other again.

It was not until I arrived in Mississippi twelve years later that I learned the truth. Cecelia and I never cried together or touched that spot inside each of us that is spirit or soul - the connection of the heart. Not until we share that inner landscape with another can healing occur, and it is there that we learn truth. This is magnified a thousandfold between races and cultures.

Erline worked as our maid in Mississippi in 1966. Caught in our cultures, we squirmed and struggled to find a place of meeting. She was a large, joyous woman - compassionate by nature - one of those people who proudly regards herself as a vital and vibrant element of the life force. She had experienced, as I had not yet, that the spark of the divine within was also feminine. This knowledge was evident in the manner in which she cared for my children, the way she touched them and me, the age-old spirituals she sang to them, the things she taught me while I was pregnant, and her intense connection to the earth and heavens. Tornadoes terrified her, rainy days were reflected in her gentleness; on sunny days it was impossible to be sad around her as her joyous spirit soared and took us with her. Her garden was a riot of colors, scents and textures; many of her nights were spent probing the mysteries of the stars, and on Sunday mornings she worshipped her God in the Baptist Church where she grew up. The hymns I heard there were sung with passion and feeling coming out of inner places that I did not know, and the sounds were very old. I loved her deeply.

Twenty-eight manses and churches, including the Jewish Synagogue, were burned in a three year period while we were there. I felt fear and hatred that was different from the way I had experienced those same feelings at other times in my life. I hated the people in the KKK, and I was afraid our manse would be next. I don't remember hating people before with that same intensity. Violence aimed at me and those I loved was beyond my imagining. My experience of this hatred was personal, direct, individual.

But, in response to these same events, Erline spoke of suffering from a deep place within - not only as an individual but as a shared sadness with countless numbers of oppressed peoples throughout the ages. Her heritage of alienation was the result of hundreds of years of abuse, prejudice, and persecution. This was part of her history - her collective angst. Her words sounded and felt true. Thirty-five years later I still ponder all this.

I was glad to leave Mississippi, but upon reaching the state line, there were tears running down my face. I stopped the car and knew my sadness was for losing Erline.  I never saw her again.

Our special thanks to Marcia for this powerful and touching portrayal. As Business Manager and Subscription Manager, she has been instrumental in keeping the Pilgrimage ship afloat for 25 years. 135 Sequoyah Ridge Rd., Highlands, NC 28741. (mwbarstow@earthlink.net)

If you enjoyed these reflections, we invite you to discover other thoughtful and personal writings in the pages of The Best of Pilgrimage and Pilgrimage Vol. 26 and Vol. 27. These can be ordered directly from this website; please click on "How to Order."