“So, you see, class, that the United States has made great strides toward achieving racial equality,” said the professor as he closed his book. “Class dismissed.”

“Professor Witmer?”

Witmer, gathering his belongings, scanned the throng of students rising from their seats.

“Yes, Anna?”

The girl’s eyes glistened. She seemed unsure. Several students passed her, off toward other collegiate destinations.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes…yes sir, but…” she shook her head.

“It’s okay, Anna. What’s on your mind?”

“Well…it’s about your lecture today, sir,” said the girl.

“Concerning integration?” asked Witmer.

“Kind of, but more about racism and…my father.”

“I see,” grimaced Witmer. “That’s always a touchy subject.”

“Yes sir, it is and…I’m not like him…when it comes to this issue.”

“As well you shouldn’t be,” said the professor. “And your mother? If I might ask, what is her opinion?”

“She thinks like dad for the most part, I suppose, but she’s not as vocal about it.”

“Any siblings?”

“Just me.”

“So you feel alone in your opinion.”

“Yes sir, very much and I want to say something but…I’m afraid of what they’ll say…of how they’ll react.”

“How often does the matter come up?” asked Witmer.

“All of the time, it seems like,” said Anna, tears welling up.

“How do you typically respond?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just pretend like I don’t hear it.”

“Hmm, yes well that’s better than joining in the conversation,” said Witmer.

The slightest smile crossed Anna’s face.

“It’s okay to share your thoughts with your parents, Anna,” said the teacher, “though, from my experience words aren’t often enough to persuade people to change for the better. It is an issue that usually requires action.”

“What should I do?” asked the girl.

“I was an only-child, like you, and dealt with racism in my home, Anna. It is a deep-rooted problem that, more often than not, weeds its way through a family — generation after generation. My advice to you is to be the one that puts and end to such hatred in your family so that your children and your children’s children won’t have to deal with the things that you have had to.”

Anna nodded.

“Stand against discrimination where you can, but defying your mother and father, out right, will not likely end the way you’d like it to. Remain respectful to them, if at all possible.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Anna, wiping a tear from her cheek. She grabbed her backpack, and said, “it feels good to get that off my chest.”

“I understand,” said Witmer, smiling warmly. “Keep standing firm in your convictions.”

Several students lingered close by listening. They followed Anna out of the classroom, in turn. Professor Witmer wondered if they faced the same problem in their own homes. God knew he had as a child. Witmer prided himself on having been the end to such bigotry is his family. His own children would never know a father that spoke ignorantly of another race. He prayed, often, that his kids would follow his example.

Witmer biked home through the pedestrian traffic of the big city. He lived only ten blocks from the university where he taught. The commute lent more time to thoughts on the subject of racial equality and the like. He often heard people, mostly of the younger sort, saying that racism was a thing of the past, but he’d lived long enough to know that wasn’t the case. He saw the dividing lines of racism in the groups of people meandering through the park. He saw it in the segregated city blocks that he traveled past: first, a Hispanic community, next, an African American, continuing on through an Asian one and so on and so forth. All so close together, yet so utterly divided. Sure, there were the occasional instances of interracial couples or acquaintances carrying on about their day together, but not many to speak of. Witmer recalled the old adage about America being a melting pot of cultures and he chuckled. A salad bowl was more like it: the mixture of several different ingredients all maintaining their distinction in the bowl they had been tossed about in. A melting pot would imply the melding of cultures — not here, though. Not, yet at least. Pulling into his drive and up to the porch, Witmer locked his bike to the porch railing, wondering, as he did so, whether there was actually anything wrong with maintaining one’s cultural heritage. Surely it wasn’t okay at the cost of bitter tension with other cultures…other races.

“I’m home, love,” said the professor.

“Daddy, daddy!” came the voices of four children flooding down the tight hallway. Witmer bent to his knees and waited for the inevitable collision; all four kids piled on top of him.

“Hey, babe,” smiled Witmer’s wife from the kitchen doorway, “I’m just getting dinner started. Wanna help?”

Witmer and his children filed into the kitchen one by one to help prepare the meal. The children clamored about, setting the table as Witmer set to work chopping up zucchini for the stir-fry.

“So, I talked to Darlene over at the relator’s office today,” began Witmer’s wife.

“And?” said Witmer.

“And she thinks she’s found a house that will suit our needs.”

“Large enough for all six of us?”

“So Darlene says.”

The clinking and clanking of the children’s chore had become increasingly louder.

“Where is the house?”

“What honey? Quite down guys I’m trying to have a conversation with your father!”

“Where is the house? Is it in a decent neighborhood?”

“What do you mean, dad?” asked his oldest boy.

“What do I mean about what, son?”

“What do you mean by decent neighborhood?”

“Well, I suppose I mean what sort of people live there.”

“Daddy means will the neighbors be the same color as us, don’t you daddy?” said his daughter.

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