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This was an especially difficult Cleveland Pages to write. I started to analyze some Census statistics, and found that they were just not very interesting. Then I looked up some relevant and promising topics in the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History, but the background items didn't seem on point for what I wanted to write this week. Finally I thought about the electoral concepts from last week's essay, which were naturally pretty darned exciting but still not what I was after.
So let me just tell you a story.
It was probably about the middle of 1989 or so. I had taken a break from work to run some kind of errand at a bank on Euclid near East 12th. (Yes, that one.) It was such a slow time of day that I'd interrupted the teller who was busy reading the Plain Dealer classifieds while waiting for customers.
Of course (and if you know me you realize this would be irresisitible) I teased this young Black woman, maybe around 25 years old, about looking for another job while on the clock. She laughed and explained that she was in the apartments section, looking for a bigger apartment for herself and her I-don't-remember-what-small-number-maybe-two children.
The teller looked a little discouraged. After taking care of my transaction, she smiled, thanked me for banking at [mumble] Bank, and went back to the ads. I lingered a minute--hey, I was on salary at the time--and watched the way she scanned. Something occurred to me.
"Um, have you looked at Archwood, Riverside, Mapledale?" I said. "They're nice streets, but still pretty cheap, and have some good half-house deals."
My teller paused nervously for a moment, and said, "Um, I don't know that area."
"It's just south of I-71, off West 25th Street." She flinched at the word west. "Close to Metro and the Zoo. See, like this place--four hundred a month, three bedrooms, half a double, and that's a nice stretch of Archwood it's on. That could be good." (Yes, rents have gone up since then, sorry.)
"Oh," said the teller. "That's..." And she thought for a minute, not really knowing what to say.
Which is when I took a chance. I had a good idea what was on her mind.
"Look," I interrupted. "It's okay. No, really, people like you can live on Archwood. I'm serious."
I have never seen a smile quite like that, and I probably never will again. When she praised Jesus before letting me leave the bank I knew that I'd said the right thing. No exaggeration.
This woman must have been under the impression that the run of West 25th Street and Pearl Road between about Metro and Deaconess, for example, was just openly hostile to African-Americans. Sure, there have been and still are outward racial incidents here. It's not perfect, and on some days it might not even be very good. But day by day, thousands of Black (and Latino, and Russian, and Chinese, and Ukranian...) people go about their lives largely without fear. It doesn't work flawlessly, but indeed it works well enough.
This place is not unusual around Cleveland but hardly anyone seems to know about it. For many African-Americans in Cleveland, anything west of the Cuyahoga is simply out of the comfort zone--maybe not presumed hostile, but not assuredly safe either.
The economic implications of the "comfort zone" are significant and obvious. The predominantly Black neighborhoods, based on my reading of the Plain Dealer classifieds in my renting days, consistently ran about a hundred dollars a month higher for comparable housing. A decent-sounding four-room half-a-house might have gone for about $350 on Denison but maybe $435 out on Superior. The feeling of confidence and safety that goes with having a Caucasian appearance in what's considered a "white" neighborhood is as good as money in the bank. (Bank joke not intended.)
How does the story end? Well, it wasn't my usual branch, and I had direct payroll deposit, so I never saw that bank teller again. I don't really know what she was afraid of: violence, verbal abuse, dirty looks, the cold shoulder? Maybe it was nothing definite. To me though, she represents all people who fear being unwelcome in a new place. What most white people don't realize, because our safe areas include pretty much anywhere we'd actually like to go, is that other people don't automatically feel wanted on my block or yours just because they have the rent money. Needing permission is not something we're used to, but it's standard procedure when you're an outsider.
It's not easy to portray one's neighborhood or company or sports bar as a place that is really open to everyone without coming off as condescending at the same time. Of course I can't just pick people out of the crowd by skin color and tell them how open-minded I and my neighbors are, because... well, because I have to understand where others are too. Not everybody is looking to be a racial pioneer, at least not every day. And if I said everything was great and there's no racial tension here I'd be lying. But it's still important for fair-minded people in (what you might call) the dominant groups to let it be known that reasonable opportunities exist that might not have been there one or five or twenty years ago.
The lesson for me... is that we can't assume racial integration and equal opportunity are going to germinate spontaneously from the rich soil of our common humanity. It takes cultivation, weeding out the bigots and instigators, and surviving the occasional instance of political blight. Sometimes, as I hope I did that day, you need to plant some seeds.
But since this is just a story, you can draw your own lessons.
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