Making Things Right

Shaunda Randall took particular pride in giving the scrawniest pieces of chicken, whether roasted or fried, to her White customers, thinking it was one small way to balance the scales. Logically, she knew it was not their fault that her forebears were enslaved, maligned, mistreated, deprived of rights and education, and held back from any form of opportunity, nor was it their fault that during all of the decades hence her people were still redlined, treated as second- or third-class citizens and remained the victims of outright prejudice.

She knew it was the whole system that failed her people and stood in the way of real equality and justice, but how could she have any influence over that? So, during her work hours behind the deli counter at WinCo, she took pleasure in offering the choicest, juiciest pieces of meat to her Black customers as a way of saying, “Have a little extra. You deserve it. You’ve suffered enough.” And for the White customers, she would dig around to find the smallest, meanest pieces as a way to say, “See how it feels to get the dregs. Turnabout is fair play.”

For the Hispanic or Asian customers, she would dole out a typical mixture of pieces. To all she smiled the same sweet smile as she handed them their portions, secretly enjoying how unaware they were of how single-handedly she was doing her part to make things right.

By nature, Shaunda wasn’t revengeful, but she was sick and tired of the daily reminders of what were now called microaggressions—those small but hurtful experiences that added up to a lifetime of feeling like the underdog. They were present even in liberal situations where people prided themselves on having a “woke” sensitivity.

When she had attended one semester of community college, her writing teacher asked her students to write about how race had affected their lives. Shaunda had wanted to scream out, “How has it NOT affected my life?” But she had simply sighed and produced an essay she felt would be acceptable, though it could hardly tell the whole story. Her story.

Shaunda was bothered by how some White people seemed to pretend to care about her. Some actually did, she knew, but it still seemed superficial if she were to generalize. Her White neighbor sometimes came over to visit or share things from her garden; White people at work and at church were often cordial to her, but typically the friendships didn’t go very far compared to how she felt among her Black friends and relatives.

One of the worst repeating moments was when someone would say, “I don’t see color.” “What?” she wanted to retort. “You don’t see that my skin is browner than yours? Are you that blind?” But hold her tongue she would, until it became a trained instinct.

One of the best experiences happened when a White person gave her a genuine compliment, without touching her hair. The surprise of those rare moments almost gave her hope that change could happen, and she could be seen, really seen, for who she was.

There was one White lady who habitually over the past year asked how she was when she came to the deli counter. “Hello, Shaunda, how ARE you today?” And while Shaunda picked out the smallest of the chicken parts to give her, she would answer, “Fine, fine,” as if everything really was fine in her world, in the world at large.

One day she was surprised when the lady introduced herself as Grace Evans and invited her to what she called a “meaningful conversation.”

“Are you free on Friday evening?” Grace asked, handing her a card with information about a series of open public conversations at a nearby coffee house.

“Well, yes, Mrs. Evans, but . . . why should I go?” Shaunda said, thinking, why are you asking me and why should I respond to your invitation? Give me one good reason to trust you.

“Do call me Grace. The world is in a tough place, and we need to foster more connection—more unity, more meaning, more hope.”

“Are you hoping I’ll bring chicken?”

“Oh, no.” Grace laughed. “We provide refreshments. Come this week, if you can. It’s on race unity.”

“And you think that’s possible—race unity?”

“Yes, with effort and transformation. I think we’ll see a lot of social change as we evolve as a human species.”

“I don’t see much evolution,” said Shaunda, remembering the news from the night before, another shooting of a Black youth by a policeman, another capture by ICE.

“I know. It’s hard to, these days. Well, come and see what you get from the conversation. You may be surprised at what you hear.”

“I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

“Hope to see you, dear.” With a smile, Grace Evans left, holding her box of scrawny chicken pieces as if it were manna from heaven.

Friday came, and as Shaunda wiped the deli counter clean for the last time of the day, she remembered the invitation card in her purse and took it out. She had no plans for that evening; her daughter was away at college, her husband had passed away three years earlier, and she normally spent Friday night in front of the TV. “Why not go and see what this crazy White lady has to say,” she muttered to herself.

At the meeting, she was surprised at the diversity among the dozen people gathered—Black, White, Hispanic, Middle-Eastern—some who seemed to be hosting the event, others who came regularly, and a few who were new, like her.

“How did you hear about this?” she asked Mary Williams, a Black woman she met.

“Announcement on Facebook.”

“And you came, not knowing any of these folks?”

“That’s right. I was curious enough to try it out. You?”

“She invited me.” Shaunda nodded toward Grace.

“Well, we’ll have to see what they have up their sleeves.”

They sat in a circle, and after introductions, some quotations were read about how race unity was possible—how it was the most challenging and important issue in America—and how humanity was part of one family. Various people spoke out, voicing hopes and even stories about how change was occurring or was not occurring; mentions of the news story about the recent shooting and other tragedies were made.

Shaunda listened, stunned by the passion of this multi-raced group discussing things that matter, so honestly, when some of them didn’t even know each other.

“Will you come again?” Grace asked her at the end of the meeting.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. What’s the topic now that we’ve solved racism?” Shaunda couldn’t resist a little bit of sarcasm.

“Oh, it won’t be solved for a long time—so much healing and change has to occur—but we can all help the process along.” Grace handed her a list of the topics and pointed to the one for the following week.

“The arts. And how does that relate to social change?”

“Come and see.”

The following Friday, Shaunda didn’t think she’d go but found herself back at the meeting place and was greeted like an old friend by everyone who had been there the week before. Most of them even remembered her name. Who are these people, and why do they seem so different? she wondered.

During the conversation she heard inspiring quotes and thoughts about how the arts can uplift, change hearts, and even help end prejudice and war. After a particular quote about how music is a ladder for the soul, she felt moved to speak out. “I used to love singing in the choir at church. It made me feel closer to God. . . . I also used to dance and write stories sometimes. But growing up I left all that behind—other things just became more important.” Others nodded, as if they had had the same experience.

“But you folks seem to be saying that creativity matters. Maybe I’d be happier if I picked up some hobbies again.”

Affirmations abounded, and after the conversation, her new friend Mary told her she was in a writers’ group, which she could join if she wanted. “What would I write?” Shaunda asked.

“Anything—memoir, poetry, fiction, plays. Whatever you’re inspired to write. I find it very healing.” Healing—that word again.

On the way home, Shaunda hummed a hymn instead of listening to the radio. Now she had two new interests—the Friday night group and the prospect of a creative writing group.

During the next week, Grace Evans came by the deli counter. “Hello, dear Shaunda.”

“Hi, there. Would you like some chicken?” Shaunda began digging through the chicken pieces, her instinct kicking in before she could question it.

“No. I just came to see you.” Grace smiled broadly. “We’re starting an interfaith choir. I thought you might want to join it.”

“Me? I’m rusty with singing.”

“That won’t matter. Music is in your soul.”

Shaunda was surprised at how uplifted she felt—Grace had come by just to see her, not for deli items. She hummed to herself the rest of the afternoon.

Soon Shaunda found herself going to weekly meetings at the Methodist Church with a group of Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Baha’is, all of whom had music from their faith traditions to share. When she initiated a gospel piece from her childhood, there was enthusiastic response, with hand clapping and movement, the addition of rhythmic instruments, and joy.

“We want you to lead that one every week!” Grace waved a tambourine.

This invitation, too, surprised Shaunda. She had taken a risk sharing her music, never guessing that the others, aside from one other African-American, would take to it. “We need more of that,” a Muslim man told her.

The Friday night conversations helped her acknowledge to herself that she had been lonely before those evenings, and the framework presented helped her envision positive change.

“Whenever I say to myself the world’s in a mess now, I think, how can we make it better,” she told the group one night. This was new for her, believing in the possibility of people changing their perspective on things—and she actually started to see change around her. Some White people no longer seemed so entitled to her, as if they, too, were starting to wake up to their own part of the problem.

Mary’s online writing group held a mix of people, and they encouraged her to start writing her stories. Memoirs, they called them, when they related to real life. Shaunda started writing in earnest—about her parents, her daughter, the loss of her husband. Reading her work to the group took courage—but everyone seemed encouraging and interested.

After choir one night, Grace invited her to come over to her house for dinner the following night. This was a surprise to Shaunda, too. She paused, took a deep breath, and then responded.

“Thank you, Grace, for inviting me to step out of my comfort zone.” She felt a well of tears coming as she gathered her thoughts. “These last few weeks—talking about important things, singing, writing, making new friends—I just couldn’t imagine all that before. I didn’t even finish college; my baby was born after the first semester. I’ve just been at home and then working at the Deli . . .”

And then the dam burst. Tears gushed from her eyes.

“Oh, Shaunda,” said Grace, reaching out to embrace her. “You’ve added so much to my life, too. You are one of the smartest, most capable women I know.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. So—you’ll come to dinner?”

Shaunda nodded. It felt genuine, this feeling between them. Black or white—it didn’t matter. They had the human experience in common, and the sharp divisions between them seemed to melt away. Maybe Grace and her friends were right—the human family would get its act together and learn to live in relative harmony, in time.

At the dinner, Shaunda met Grace’s husband, Bruce, and their adopted teenage son, Rafael, who was bi-racial. She learned that the family had traveled to Africa several times. African art and artifacts embellished their walls. Zulu music played softly in the background. During the conversations they had, she learned they had a lot in common.

You learn a lot about someone when you step into their home, she thought. I would never have guessed. . . .

The next day at the deli, Shaunda doled out equal pieces of chicken to everyone who approached her counter. Maybe I put too much stock in the outsides of people, she thought. And maybe there are other ways to make things right. She determined to try.