The following tale is about a young social caseworker who plied his skills in Central Los Angeles shortly after the Watts riots of 1965.

The caseworker had just turned into a side street lined with overfilled garbage cans and blocked by police cars. One of the policemen approached his vehicle. The caseworker rolled down his car window and was about to ask the policeman to let him pass. He was running late on his rounds. But he had to fit Mrs. Long into his schedule. He knew she would be excited to hear his news. But before he could address the policeman, the officer blurted out, “Are you lost?” Of course, he wasn’t. Quickly, he explained who he was and that he knew the area well. The policeman eyed him with suspicion and said, “No white man is safe here, especially one in a suit and tie. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t my job and I wasn’t carrying a gun.” The caseworker explained his job was here too. This is where his clients lived. He assured the officer they presented no danger to him. The officer shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay, but it’s your funeral.” The caseworker steered around the police cars and smiled to himself at the thought of the petite Mrs. Long being any kind of threat to him or to anybody. Two months earlier, when he had been assigned his initial case load, he did have some misgivings about the neighborhood. His apprehension seemed justified when children threw things at his car. But the adults soon corralled them. Now the only danger he faced was the potholed streets and driving after dark. Once he had left a client shortly after sunset and found it difficult to find his way in the darkened streets. His only fear then was the potholes he might not avoid and the pedestrians he might not see. Street lamps he learned were never replaced after burn out. That fact probably explained why the local police cars were all equipped with search lights.

Pulling into Mrs. Long’s driveway, a neighbor saluted and said, “I thought you’d be coming tomorrow.” The caseworker acknowledged the greeting with a wave and replied, “I came early with good news.” The neighbor shook his head and warned, “She won’t be expecting you.” At the front door, he hesitated before knocking. Of course, he would not normally show up unannounced if Mrs. Long could afford a phone. When the door suddenly swung open, he was surprised to be confronted by a large black man. The man was glaring at the over-dressed figure before him, apparently sizing him up. At the same time, the caseworker was making his own assessment. He knew Mrs. Long was married, but her application for AFDC (Aid to Families with Dependent Children) stated that her husband had abandoned her. The man spoke first, “So, who the hell are you? You’re not carrying, so I know you’re no goddam cop. If you’re one of those insurance salesmen, we don’t want any of that bogus crap you’re selling.” Suddenly, he took a step towards the caseworker. His face hardened, but his tone was confidential as he said, “If you know what’s good for you, you’d get the hell out of here.”

The caseworker, feeling intimidated, tensed up. He reacted by assuming the air of a county official and met his perceived challenger head on. “You’re Mr. Long aren’t you? Well I’m your wife’s social worker. Do you realize I could have you arrested for failure to support your wife and child?” The large black man caved quickly. “Please sir, don’t call the cops. I’m not living off my wife’s money. I just came by to visit and see my daughter. I’d give them money if I had any . . . I’m looking for work, I am.” He was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Long who pushed him aside. She apologized for her husband and reiterated his story. The social caseworker relaxed. He reminded her that Mr. Long would not be permitted to live with her unless he was contributing to the support of the family. There were tears in her eyes as she nodded her understanding. The social caseworker was beginning to feel guilty. Finally, he gave her the good news about her acceptance in the training program she wanted. She wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled. Now embarrassed, he suggested that Mr. Long should come to the office and ask for him. He promised to connect her husband with an employment counselor.

Later, he found himself staring at the ignition switch in his car, unable to turn the key. He was caught up in an emotion he was struggling to understand. He felt ashamed.

The End.

I call this story a “tale,” though it is not truly apocryphal. It is a composite of actual events. What it exemplifies is the many aspects of bias. At the time of this tale, there were many segregated black communities cowed by dependency on social welfare, distrustful of police, and intimidated by those who controlled their fate. The latter were also controlled by their fear of the vengeful black man and by deeply rooted misperceptions. In truth, every facet of my story exhibits telltale biases colored in white and black, framed within systems, and hung up in social structures no less bias.

I ask my readers how much of this story has changed in the last five decades and how much of it still shadows us today. Each generation has had to deal with this racial issue—from the creation of our Constitution, the Civil War, and the civil rights movement of the 1960s to Ferguson and the protest in our cities today. Though “the ark of change” may be long and progress has been made, how many generations after us will be still sorting out the consequences of the darkest chapters in American history? Telltale biases will persist until rooted out at their source. That source is only partially revealed in abstract self-examination. Changes in social systems and laws only address the externals, though they provide a threshold for change to pass through. It is only at the level of the heart, however, that these racial biases will finally be overcome. There is where change can touch the soul. (Ref. “Soulfulness”)