This Door Not Open
A few summers ago I took my camera and headed on a little tour of places I like to visit and snapped a lot of photos. I don’t get to play around with photography as much as I want, but I have a little collection of favorites. The red door of the First Presbyterian Church in downtown Springfield is vibrant and stands out to me. The church is known for being the family church of the Abe Lincoln family when they lived here. Actually, this church houses the pew his family purchased (don’t get me started on that one) (or church, for that matter) and the Lincoln worshiped at the previous church before they moved the congregation and the pew to the new church.
I really liked the detail on this door so I tried to do a close up.
On the side of this building there is another door which, clearly, is no longer used. The wording of how they describe the fact that the door isn’t functional tickles me so much that I use it as a euphemism when thinking about other things that just “don’t work”.
This door not open. There’s just something about that phrase. Seemingly, it applies to so much and I just couldn’t get it out of my head after reading the comments on my writing about race. In fact, every time I even think about issues of race and realize the lengths we have to go for understanding of it in this country, this saying comes to mind. This door not open. With racism, it remains closed until someone walks up to the side of it and says, “Yes, I’ll open it and I’ll walk through it and talk about it because there has to be a way in somehow.” For me, the way in was just to tell a simple yet complicated story of my dad. Listening to the comments (and I’ve listened because I kept reading them aloud to friends or anyone who wanted to talk about it the last few days) have shifted something in me.
One commenter, Caoilini wrote, “It would have caused a pang before being a mom, sure, but now it sets off a whole range of intense emotions. And a fierce determination to teach my children how not to be like those bigoted fools.”
Robin wrote, “I actually want to share this entry with all of my White friends who have family that are clearly racist, but excuse their racism with “Well, they’re from another generation, you understand that, right?” (when that generation is the Baby Boomers) or “Well, you have to understand that they’re never around any Black people, so of course they’re going to be nervous around you.” What am I? An alien? Did Black people just descend onto earth like District 9?
Maybe if they read this story – even if it’s just for a minute – they can walk a mile in your shoes (and your family’s shoes) and realize that ignorance really is a choice, not something you’re born with.”
Aviatrixt said, “We are taking over. I might not be of the same mixed heritage, but I can tell you, we are taking over. Whatever that means.” Mr. Lady echoed her sentiments: “People like us ARE taking over.”
Maybe the only comment that got an audible laugh from me (followed by a Hmm, Maybe I Will) was from Kelli from South City Confidential who wrote: “I fucking love you. Write your memoirs, already.”
Both Liz from Mom-101 and Deb from Deb on the Rocks mentioned that being able to “pass” isn’t limited to light-skinned blacks, but also to Jews and Lesbians and anyone in the Other category.
Finally, a childhood friend of mine, Meeghan, wrote this: “Hey Kelly, I remember when we took you guys camping with us when we were little, you and I were in line to ride a water slide and some kid called us Niggers. That was the first time I was ever called that. I remember it like yesterday though.”
Sadly, I remember that day with Meeghan all too well. What began as a simple camping trip with family friends that included two Black fathers, two White mothers, and four mixed daughters ended up being a painful time because it smacked us right in the face. It was the same trip I got a scar on my foot from falling from the ladder of the water slide, but the other scar cut deeper. Like most people, I remember every single time I have ever been called a nigger. It’s not a memory that goes away and it is a sting that you bury and hope it stays behind a door that will never open until someone bursts through it by flinging that slur around. Eternally, you wish it wouldn’t spring open, but it does.
You wish that racism remains a door that “not open”. That door open, and every time we all speak up about it then maybe it’ll finally, firmly, stay closed.


