Working Through It

by Leslie Shalduha

Trigger Warning: This essay has mentions of Murder, Sexual Assault, Death

 I woke one morning from a dream about my first love, Jason, from sixth grade. Never mind that it has been almost 40 years since that ill-fated love story – he moved at the end of sixth grade and I had to carry on without him. That is not the story I want to write about now. My thoughts upon waking wandered from him to my friend, Liggett, who was not only my first black* friend but also my cousin.

My childhood journals, kept to share with my someday daughter, are filled with racism, discrimination, self-deprecating sexism and judgments on others. Reading it now is a study in embarrassment, shame and disgust. For how I thought of others and especially how I thought of myself in relation to boys, specifically. When she reads these journals, I can only hope that the person I am now weighs heavier than that misguided younger version of me.

Life’s purpose, I think, is to grow, change and evolve; become a better person, do better with our children than our parents did, learn, challenge the status quo, especially in ways that people are being marginalized. All these thoughts and feelings of the way I have participated in this world, ways I have not contributed to the better good, ways I have further marginalized folks. I feel called to write about my experiences with people of color and I am not sure what my point is. Perhaps this is just for me, perhaps a theme will emerge that makes it necessary to share with the world. In this writing, I am shocked at the number of my black friends who have been killed in tragic, violent ways or who have endured incredible health crises.

I am very aware now of the injustices that BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) people face. I look for ways to be supportive, to be a better white person of privilege. I cannot understand how anyone turns a blind eye to the infuriating ways BIPOC people continue to be repressed.

I wonder, even as I write this, if writing this is an act of racism? How do I work through these thoughts and feelings in a way that is, well, right? Or fair? Is it racism itself that I am choosing to write about my experiences with black people, rather than all BIPOC?

Thoughts swirl through my head; I imagine my first crush in Kindergarten, Carlos, whose name is the only thing I remember. In my mind, he was a Latino – but am I only saying that because his name was Carlos and we lived in El Paso, Texas? Oh, and my sweet friend Therese? A tall, voluptuous Korean woman, adopted from Korea by a white family as a child. We became best friends in the Navy, stationed together in Coronado. She was fiery and smart and a wicked poet. When I suffered congestive heart failure during my daughter’s birth, Therese immediately purchased plane tickets for her and my bestie to fly from New Jersey to Ohio. I was not yet conscious when she came and she left before I awoke. I knew she had been there, though, and felt her love. I did not see Therese again before she died, of an accidental overdose. How about V Gutierrez? The first man of color I slept with - Oh V, he thought he was hot shit. If I am to be honest, he certainly was.

I lived in subsidized housing as a single mother, next door to a LGBTQ+ couple. D, a Latino teacher at my daughter’s preschool and her white partner, K. were raising a daughter, M, who was a few years older than my daughter. Later, they had another beautiful girl child. Our lives were closely intertwined until my daughter and I moved across the country. My own Aunt Maggie is Latino! I am embarrassed to admit I had no awareness of that for far too long. It took my white-passing cousin posting about her Latino roots before I understood. Kelly of Mexican and German descent, with beautiful brown skin and the blackest of hair and brave beyond anyone I knew - we worked together at a telemarketing place in Colorado. Unknown to me when I moved into the same apartment building as her, it was where I was conceived 21 years before – but I digress. We partied, as one does in their early 20’s, smoking cannabis, cigarettes and drinking in my tiny studio apartment. I was in awe of her goth/punk style and personality – so different than anything I had thus far experienced. Eventually I moved away, and our communications became more and more distant. On a recent cross-country road trip, though, I blew through Colorado and met up with my old friend after 30 years. Time melted away as we reminisced; my daughter listened to our wild stories and snapped a few photos of us embracing, giggling and silly.

When my parents separated, Mom brought my younger brothers and I back to her roots in Appalachia. As a single mother of three kids under the age of seven, she wanted the support of family and friends.  We arrived in time for me to begin second grade at Malta Elementary School, in walking distance from our rented, rambling old Victorian style house.

One of my most important memories is my friendship with Liggett. A scrawny little black boy with mischief in his eyes and friendship in his heart, we became fast friends. Back in those days, we kids had the run of the town; I spent most of my time running the streets and playing all over town. Sometimes Mom would give me money to go buy her smokes or the key to the post office box to gather the mail and bring it home. Liggett lived near the post office and I always looked for him to join me on my adventures.

Unbeknownst to me until high school, Liggett was also my cousin. Mom’s cousin, Kathy, had married a black man back in the early 70’s and had children. I really only came to know Aarik and Aaron, twins a couple of years older than me and Liggett, who was near my age. Even though we were family, we did not come together as such. Kathy was mostly ostracized from the rest of the family except her Momma. From what I know, Aunt Jo Ann, Grandpa’s sister, always supported her daughter and was very involved in her and her kids’ life.

When I learned Liggett was my cousin I was embarrassed by the knowledge and am ashamed of that. Though I was friendly with Aaron, Aarik and Liggett, I certainly had no concept of what their life was really like. Liggett and Aaron both died too early. Liggett, at 46, left behind a grieving wife and son. Reading the comments on his page and his obituary, I see he carried the same loving spirit I knew through his life. Aaron, at 27, died in a tragic car accident and left behind a wife and two children.

Twins, Heather and Heidi, were also friends in my younger days. I remember Mom driving me out to their place. With the windows rolled down, my hand feeling the wind, I felt so excited to go to a friend’s house – in the country! I suppose the knowing that we were friends must suffice, as time has stolen the detailed memory of our visits. On a recent trip home, I was pleasantly surprised to see Heidi working in a local shop, she who I had not seen for many years. After a few polite words shared with her, it has left me thinking of her and her twin sister, Heather, murdered in 2008 at the age of 33, leaving behind a husband and five children. Her assailant was sentenced to life in prison.

My paternal great-grandmother lived at the other end of town, and I would go to visit her often. Grandma Jo was a mystery to me, she and my Aunt Joann who had Down’s syndrome, of which I had no understanding. Next door lived Jamie, a beautifully brown-skinned boy with the most charming smile. Did I have a crush on Jamie! The feeling was apparently mutual as he gave me a diamond ring to seal our love. His grandmother came over at some point to recover the ring which he had sneaked from her jewelry box. Our young love story was short and sweet.

These friendships, forged in the innocence of childhood, now serve as sweet memories. As time marched on and I moved across the river to a new school in fourth grade, I created more memories with new friends, deeper relationships as I slowly and painfully matured.

Dee, a light-skinned black girl from a large family, was ornery and sharp – she, my stepsister Shelly and I shared many an adventure. Once my family moved across the street from hers, we spent more time together. Her younger sister, Wendy, was always trying to hang out with us but we were not about to allow that; we spent quite a lot of time dodging the youngers. Dee’s family owned the local waste sanitation company; we were all saddened when her older brother died in a tragic accident during the course of this work.

In high school I became friends with Abi, a beautiful and funny black girl that I met in Spanish class. My, she was so funny. I cannot think of her to this day without a smile on my face, bittersweet. Abi’s father was a big man – the biggest man I had ever seen in my life, a black minister whose stern expression was often balanced with a big smile. Her mother, a petite, tiny white woman, always seemed to me filled with peace and light. Abi and I attended Upward Bound, a college prep program for low-income kids; we spent two summers living in dorms at Ohio University during high school. Such an incredible experience – the kind of fun that teens complain about but that are so good for team building – games, talent shows, skits, attending classes and generally feeling free for six weeks each summer. 

Though a fairly large group, we became close in many ways. Three of my closest friends were black, from Ironton. T was the strongest, bravest girl I knew; she did not put up with any nonsense. Our friendship took a solid blow when at a baseball game, she borrowed my lighter to light her cigarette. The flame was unfortunately turned all the way up and she burnt her nose; she nearly took me out – it was weeks before she forgave me. T was the first person I knew to get pregnant and have a child at this age. In the year between our two summers, she gave birth to a sweet little girl. T’s family kept the baby so that she could still attend UB that next summer.

N and I were not quite as close – a beautiful, fun-loving girl and Pank – that guy, now, that guy was a delight. Small and athletically built, he was full of pranks and silliness. He became closest with a tall, white skinny guy with long blond hair – F. What a pair they were! Pank and I never lost touch exactly but I have not checked in with him in a very long while. To remedy that while writing this, I was beyond shocked to find that he is a quadruple amputee, having lost his limbs due to sepsis. I, of course, will not presume to know anything about him or his situation; I will say that the Pank I knew shines clearly in the photos of him now, with his family and friends. The joy and laughter that still emanates from him is truly inspirational.

At the end of the second summer, we had a talent show. Abi, T, N, myself and another white girl named D put on a dance to the song “Hold On” by En Vogue. Let me just say I had not danced in my life before this since I attempted and failed group dance as a young child. T was the lead choreographer and all-around boss to my absolute disaster of a dancer. We spent hours in the weeks leading up the show, practicing in whatever empty space we could find. We chose our outfits - black biker shorts and white tops. The big night arrived and we took the stage - T as the front woman, with the four of us as her backup dancers. It went pretty well, considering - you only notice my big screw-up on the video if you are looking for it.

Fast forward to Navy boot camp. I made a couple of friends there – Sonia, a tiny, bubbly white blond and Bolarinwa, a tall, lanky black boy with a strong accent and a terrific smile. We all called each other by our last names – mine was Miller and he always said “Hiiii Meeeeler…..” Bolarinwa and I stayed in touch for a couple of years before we lost the thread. I recently found his old letters – what a treasure.

It was in the Navy that I first learned some black men were granted shaving waivers due to a skin condition that disproportionately affect black men. It is quite a big deal in the military to be given permission to have facial hair. Stationed on the Coronado Naval Amphibious Base, I became fast friends with Dawn who suffered from Sickle Cell Anemia. It was only in watching her suffer that I became aware of this disease that disproportionately affects black women. We sadly lost touch after a few years; I have been unsuccessful in finding her for many years.

Oh! Willy! In an effort to keep us out of Tijuana, the Navy nightclub on base served beer and wine. My friends and I went dancing nearly every night. Willy, a large, muscular black man worked as a bouncer and he took a liking to me. We had a fun, lighthearted flirtation and I knew he was looking out for me. I have little notes in my scrapbooks that he wrote to me, filling me with lovely memories as I come across them.

Then there was Mac, an aspiring photographer who asked my friend Josephine and I to pose for a photo shoot so he could build his portfolio. Mac was a tall, good-looking black man with a couple of gold teeth. Josephine and I were so naïve in those days. Most of the photos are us posing sexy (well, Josephine nailed it, but I just look pissed in most of them) individually and with each other. Mac treated us both respectfully; I remember that as I look through the photos, wondering cynically if a couple of young girls were taken advantage of in some way.

When my Aunt Jo Ann died, my cousin Aarik and his siblings organized the memorial at a local community center. This was followed by a drive out to the rural cemetery where Aunt Jo Ann’s ashes were to be placed in the ground. Aarik has a strong religious bent which he shared with us as he led the memorial, dressed in a bright blue suit, preaching passionately. The service was emotional, lively and loud, in the Call and Response style of black churches. I found it inspirational and fulfilling. After, we drove out to the cemetery to place the urn in the ground. There was a deep, narrow hole dug, just big enough for the urn to rest. Unfortunately, that hole did not allow space to gently lower the urn and required some fancy finagling to place it – it did provide some comic relief, lightening the solemn mood and we once again listened to more of Aarik’s passionate eulogy of his beloved aunt. 

In 2009, Abi was brutally murdered and sexually assaulted in her home by a seventeen year old white boy. He had a troubled home life and Abi had welcomed him into her family so as to provide him safety and stability. Abi, only 35 and in the absolute prime of her life still had three children in school. That boy was sentenced to life in prison with possibility of parole in only 25 years. In a tragic case of which I am unfortunately too familiar with in Colorado, two white assailants of a similarly brutal murder of a young white woman were given the death sentence to one and life in prison to the “lesser” bad guy. Just another gross example of how the justice system failed Abi here, as it so often does with people of color.

About a year after her death, Abi came to me in a dream. She came silently, with the most beautiful smile on her face. I have felt peace for her since then. I think of her often, still, her beautiful smile and infectious laughter. My friend remains in my heart always and I hope that her joy and light will be carried on by her children.

Once I arrived in Oregon, I became good friends with a Jamaican black woman - beautiful, blunt and witty, Carlene and her tall, lanky white husband have three daughters around my daughter’s age with whom we spent lots of time. Memories of the girls staying over, making silly videos and giggling late into the night, coming over to make and decorate sugar cookies for all the holidays and so many family celebrations together. For many years on Christmas eve, my daughter and another friend dressed up like burglars, snuck up to Carlene’s house and dropped Secret Santa gifts for her girls. Such fun! Carlene always suspected it was us though we never have admitted to it (until now!). She and I visited often, sipping tea while chatting, doing food preservation, working with herbs and visiting farms. Distance separates us now though we remain close in spirit, maintaining the connection we made so many years ago.

In 2021, I moved to Wallowa County in rural northeastern Oregon, a predominantly white ranching community with “traditional family values” prevailing. There is also a vibrant diverse community here, filled with artists, farmers and natural health care practitioners. I met AJ, a petite, serious biracial woman and her partner Dani, a no-nonsense, eloquent biracial woman, soon after moving here as we worked in the same circuit of vendors for local craft shows and the farmer’s market. AJ and Dani produce beautiful candles and assorted other crafts. They are raising two beautiful boys and are active and strong in the LGBTQ+ community, providing care and support when needed, a safe place for folks to land and are unfailing advocates for the safety, happiness and health of their community.

Since moving here, they have been bullied and harassed by ignorant and cruel people. Despite the sinister nature of this treatment, they stand strong in their convictions, unwilling to turn the other cheek in the face of racism, sexual assault (by a white woman, no less) and more. Here are two beautiful, strong women, working to make the world a better place for not only themselves and their sons, but for the local community and the country, too. To see the pain and struggle, the emotional toll of living in fear for their and their children’s safety, based on race and gender, is abhorrent.

For this and my other friends over the years who have suffered from racism, discrimination, sexism, genderism – it is enough. We, as a country, have failed, over and over again. A fair, honest and supportive community is the antithesis to the hate and ignorance on full display in our society. As white people, as straight people, and especially as women, we must stand up stronger, louder and bigger for their right to a life of liberty and happiness.

*I am trying to be thoughtful of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) and how each person identifies, whether they use black, mixed, biracial or any other term. Please note that my language may not be accurate. In some cases, my friends have shared with me their preference. In other cases, I have not been able to confirm their preference due to loss of contact or death.