Candy Cane Spaceship

By Jane Thornton

“Oh, Mommy, it’s what I always just wanted!”

This gushing exclamation from my three-year-old son melted my heart and that of every family member in the room. A repeat of that ringing approbation became our goal over the next few sets of gift-giving occasions. So, when Matthew, with his unique and mysterious imagination, announced that he wanted a candy cane spaceship for his birthday, creative genius throughout the clan went to work.

Phone calls were exchanged. Gentle inquisitions probed his fanciful mind. The usual answer, though, lacked detail:  “You know, a candy cane spaceship.” Aunt Nanny, natural-born artist, took up the challenge. With papier–mâché, glue, and paint, she created a masterpiece. The resulting red and white striped saucer, with a clear plastic dome for a bridge, perfectly-sized for a newly four boy, awed everyone who saw it. Except Matthew.

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Red Badge Of Failure

By Jane Thornton

When I was in second grade and my sister was in kindergarten, I wielded my red pen with great delight. I brought home spare work sheets, determined to enlighten her with whatever I had learned. I remember that each large scarlet X, showing her the error of her ways, warmed my bossy little heart. All signs indicated that teaching was in my soul.

Last night, grading quizzes for my senior English class, I brandished a green pen—it’s less threatening to student psyche than red. Each slash through an incorrect answer elicited a hiss of disapproval or a groan of frustration. As the number of Xs mounted, my shoulders slumped. If my students failed, I failed. What made me think I should be a teacher?

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Vanity, Vanity, All Is Vanity

On a muggy summer morning a few months ago, a creak and rustle disturbed my deep vacation slumber.  I slit one eye open to see my teenaged daughter creeping toward my bathroom.  My bleary gaze rolled to the clock:  seven a.m.  “What are you doing up so early?”  My voice was thick and groggy.  Remember this happened in the summer, and my daughter is a teenager.  Normal rousing time for her would be eleven.

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Best Friends, Best Enemies

We tortured him.  I should be ashamed.  Yet, when those memories hit, a nostalgic, perhaps mischievous, smile creeps onto my face.  As I reminisce over common stories with friends, I do believe a tinge of pride enters my voice.  We traveled across the country in our Dodge wagon, two kids in the back seat, two lying on top of the luggage in the bicky-back.  We knew better than to hit. Hitting could result in an immediate swerve to the roadside and a paddling. So we pointed. Our victim—Wade, the youngest, of course.  Our best intimidating stares accompanied the pointing fingers.

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We Got Game

By Jane Thornton –

I am white. So white, in fact, that my college buddies, upon seeing me in my swimsuit, dubbed me Flo, short for florescent.

Their mockery did not scar me even though I remember it vividly almost thirty years later. I’m sure their ridicule has nothing to do with the embarrassing fact that I dye my legs before wearing shorts or skirts in the spring.

I teach in a district where several of my classes are ninety percent African American, nine percent Hispanic, and one percent white – and I have been that one percent in some classes. Jumping right in during the first week, if not the first day, of school, I address the conclusions we might draw based on appearance. What does a middle-aged, white woman wearing a dress purchased in the eighties have in common with a teenaged, black guy sagging his jeans to his knees?

Students respond well to laying the cards on the table. The issue re-emerges several times throughout the year, most notably when I try to use a term like gangster. (Don’t ask me why this term is relevant so often. I can’t explain it.) My pronunciation of this noun engenders great hilarity, with repetition and exaggerated, drawn out versions of the syllable er. So, I adapt and say gansta. Now the students are rolling on the floor. Nothing opens up a conversation like a little self-inflicted derision.

I share with my kids how my friend Michelle Stimpson’s book, Boaz Brown, opened my eyes to my ignorance. Some of her characters, who were professional, educated, Christian African Americans, struggled with prejudice—against whites. Of course, I knew I was white, even without my college friends’ insulting label of Flo, but that detail remained in my subconscious, rarely crossing my mind. I have discovered that both African Americans and Hispanics seem much more aware of their race. In fact, as a minority in my environment, I, too, have become more conscious of my color, or lack thereof.

The differences in culture among the races have also become evident. Acknowledging these undeniable distinctions does not constitute racism; de-valuing them does. I have found that frank, respectful discussions free all parties to learn and adjust their lens on life.

This possibility indicates progress for our society. We have not arrived; tact is still required and always will be. But I look forward to the day when no race feels defensive, when we can use descriptive words related to ethnicity and skin color just like words related to height and eye color without hesitating lest they seem racist. I look forward to the days when we embrace each other as we embrace this scripture: “for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise” (Galatians 3:27-29 NIV).

Hmm. Yes, I see the irony of an author writing an article about being comfortable with who we are yet planning to continue with the silly, vain habit of smearing iodine-colored lotion over her pale skin to subdue its luminescence.

Comment prompt: Do you have an encouraging story in our battle with prejudice?

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