As a ten year old, I sat in front of the television watching a news program my aunt had put on. I had just watched one of my favorite Japanese animation cartoons (yes, even in the 1970s they had them), and, as usual, when the moment seemed darkest, the proverbial cavalry came to save the day. Now we turned to one of the major network stations since that was the deal… I had my hour of watching my show on the UHF station out of Boston, and now my aunt got to watch her news. One of the national newscasters was going on about how it was the 15 year anniversary of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and how prejudice and violence in the South had ripped communities apart. Archived images of people being beaten by other people over the right to vote, or eat at the same restaurants as others, just confused me. Weren’t all grown ups allowed to vote? Couldn’t anyone go and eat in any restaurant they wanted if they could pay for it? It didn’t make sense. My mind was still reeling from the hours of cartoons I watched, so it didn’t hit me right away… all of the people being beaten were dark-skinned and all of the people doing the beating were light-skinned. Oh.
Then I asked my aunt about it, and she told me a little about the Civil Rights Movement, and how there was a big struggle in our country over whether or not African Americans should have the same rights as whites. And it was as recent as fifteen years ago. As a naïve ten year old, I thought that was settled in 1776. Apparently not. And the more I asked my aunt about it, and the more I asked her what she did about it, the more withdrawn she became. It became clear even to a ten-year old that she had stood by, watched events happen, and didn’t do anything to help. She was embarrassed. She had been a witness to history, but not a part of it.