Reparation: Confessions of a White American
By Ernest DiStefano
UPDATE: Ernie DiStefano’s interview on Sports360 with Jeff Fannell can be heard here on SoundCloud
As many of you know, in January 2020, the Forum published my essay, “The Rippling Manifesto,” which made the case for Negro League Reparations. This sparked numerous radio interviews, which created a groundswell of support for the cause. This, in turn, inspired me to create the Ripple of Hope Initiative, a movement to achieve direct monetary reparations for Negro League players and their surviving family members. As a follow-up to my January essay, I would now like to share with you my life’s path, as a white American, that steered me to becoming a passionate advocate for African-American justice.
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1968
I was in second grade. Schools were closed for the funeral of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King. My understanding of Dr. King’s life and legacy at that time was restricted to the realization that because of his death, I had the day off. As my mother and I watched the televised funeral march for Dr. King, I asked her what happened.
“Honey,” she said, “some people in this world hate other people just because of the color of their skin.”
I was stunned by Mom’s answer. It made no sense to me. Yet after Dr. King’s funeral and the reopening of my school, I returned to carefree life as a white child in America.
1969
We had one African-American classmate in our entire third grade class, a little girl named Frieda May. Frieda was constantly bullied, ridiculed and isolated. One day, I was eating lunch with my white classmates in the school cafeteria. One of these classmates (let’s call him “Howard”) leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“Hey Ernie,” Howard said, “Watch this.”
He looked at Frieda, who was sitting at the same table across from us.
“Hey Frieda,” he said, “Are you in the Brownies?” Frieda shook her head no.
“Well you should be!” he said.
Other children laughed; I did not. But I also did not confront my classmate or do anything to stop him.
1995
I was standing in line with my wife and daughter at a restaurant in Virginia, waiting to be seated for dinner. Also in line in front of us was an older African-American gentleman. The restaurant’s host walked passed him, stopped in front of us, and asked how many people were in our party. I turned to the gentleman.
“Are you waiting for a table, sir?” I asked.
“I thought I was,” he replied.
With that, the host reluctantly walked him to his table.
My anger was palpable as we sat down to eat. I glanced over at the gentleman. He was looking back at me. I quickly turned my face back to my plate of food, wondering what he was thinking. Was he grateful that I did not take advantage of the restaurant host’s racist behavior, or was he disappointed that we stayed and gave them our business? This question has haunted me for the past twenty-five years.
2008
We elected the first African-American president in the history of our nation. I blissfully celebrated the election of our first African-American president with my many friends and colleagues of color. My white man’s naiveté allowed me to believe that Barack Obama’s election signaled the beginning of the end of racism in America. Not even the murder of Trayvon Martin or the many incidents of police brutality against people of color during that time could awaken me to the fact that racism was alive and well in America.
2016
The Klu Klux Klan’s public endorsement of one of the presidential candidates, the winning candidate no less, finally provided my wake-up call. The 2016 election also provided the reason for the unprecedented hatred and hostility shown toward President Obama: racism is alive and well in the United States.
Benjamin Franklin said that, “Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged by those who are.” So why did I start the Ripple of Hope Initiative? I did it for Frieda May, the gentleman in the restaurant, George Floyd, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd and all of my African-American brothers and sisters to whose pain and suffering I was oblivious for far too long. And what’s in it for me? Reparation.
…
Ernie – great stuff. I too am white and was brought up By my parents to be anti racist. But… I attended an old time Catholic grammar school outside of Philadelphia. My town was virtually all white. The housing was segregated. So the parish was all white. A black girl started attending my school. I think I was in the 4th or 5th grade. She was in the 2nd or 3rd grade. I believe she lasted about a week. Although my school went up to the 8th grade, I was still a leader. I did nothing to defend her. I never told my parents about her. I don’t know if they were aware. In my later years at the school, I became less helpless. I organized my classmates to resist bullying, and other relatively minor unfairness. I wonder what might have happened if I’d practiced what my parents had preached and defended her. I recall how helpless I felt at the time.