FERGUSON, Missouri - We put up barriers to ease our fears – some made from plywood and chain link, like those recently erected to protect property in Ferguson. cheap essay writing services.
But other barriers remain invisible.
"There's that separateness, a wall," says Ted Douglas, a nursing home employee and an African American.
Dabbing his toast in his eggs, Douglas sits alone at a diner counter. He has good relationships with white co-workers, but when conversations turn to issues of race, he says discussions can sometimes be more difficult.
"It's a dangerous place to go," agrees Norman White, an associate professor of criminology and criminal justice at St. Louis University.
Why is that?
Why after all these years do blacks and whites still struggle to have honest conversations about race, until the pressure builds and bursts like it has in Ferguson?
Douglas ponders the question and offers this: "The things that I've heard white folks say about black people, even sometimes when it may be true, it hurts. dissertation writing help. That may be one reason people don't talk," he says.
Mike Huffendick, who is white, says he has conversations on many subjects with his African American co-workers, but acknowledges there are barriers that can't be crossed.
"I don't know what it's like to be a black man when the police are hassling you, or what not, so I don't know where they're coming from so I don't completely understand it," Huffendick says.
Ekene Okafor, who is black, and a student at Saint Louis University, believes some of the difficulty exists in preconceived, and often incorrect, notions. "I know so many blacks that just like, just have an idea of what white people in general think about them," he says.
Norman White speaks often of race in front of his students. "As criminal justice students you guys are like critical," he passionately tells one of his classes.
"I just kind of see this undertone," says Germaine Gregory, one of White's African American students, who then tells a story about her son being stopped by police while driving. She says there was no reason for the officer to stop him, other than his race.
Natalie Conners, a white students, points out that people of all races form their opinions on past experiences. "I feel that's been forgotten about," she says, "that this is like a two way street."
It's conversation White encourages in his classrooms, but that doesn't always come easily.
White says some of his students are afraid to share their personal thoughts on the role race plays in criminal justice, "because they're afraid that when they raise those issues in class, other people will think of them in bad ways, that they will judge them, they will label them."
To be labeled a racist, says White, is "the last thing you want to be on a college campus."
Yet that fear of engagement in honest conversation, says White, only makes things worse down the road.
"If they can't address the issue of race here, how will they address it when they become police officers, or corrections officers, or probation officers?" asks White.
White says the problem is further exacerbated by the separation between blacks and whites that still exists in many neighborhoods and schools.
"Not having that social interaction just creates this circumstance where it's really difficult to know how to talk to each other," he says.
That's not a problem for Okafor and his good friend Patrick Sweeney, who is white. The SLU bio-chemistry students are engaged in easy conversation at the campus student center.
Says Sweeney, "When you know somebody well enough he knows that whatever I say that might come off as offensive is not intending to be offensive at all."
"That happens a lot," says Okafor, concurring.
Peter Kohlberg, another sprinkler fitter, on his lunch break with Huffendick, throws up his hands. He is white and no fan of stifled conversations. "You can't walk around life like, 'I'm scared to talk to anybody about anything.' You've got to be able to talk or you get stuck in this rut we're in."
A few miles away, Sharon Randall and Barbara Hughes sit on a bus bench in Ferguson, impeccably dressed, warm smiles and African American.
"That's just the way I am," says Randall, "you give me a smile, I'm going to give you a smile back.
Both women have neighbors who are white. They insist no conversation is off limits.
"Even when the situation happened here," says Randall, "the lady that I work with, you know, she's Caucasian, and she just asked me, 'How are you doing?' That's a human question, that's not a black and white question. It made me feel good."
A white man, with a stick and a bucket of litter, approaches in the distance.
"That's Paul," says Hughes. "He does this every day, he cleans the neighborhood."
Paul Beins comes closer and the neighbors are quickly engaged in conversation."It's a matter of relationships," says Beins. Randall and Hughes nod in agreement.
They talk about the recent strife in Ferguson. Their honest exchange and ease with each other could be so instructive if others would listen.
"Until we get to know one another, we're going to have this problem constantly," says Beins.
Post Credit: King5
But other barriers remain invisible.
"There's that separateness, a wall," says Ted Douglas, a nursing home employee and an African American.
The St. Louis area is bracing for more unrest, whether it be in celebration or anger, when the decision comes down.
Dabbing his toast in his eggs, Douglas sits alone at a diner counter. He has good relationships with white co-workers, but when conversations turn to issues of race, he says discussions can sometimes be more difficult.
Why is that?
Why after all these years do blacks and whites still struggle to have honest conversations about race, until the pressure builds and bursts like it has in Ferguson?
Douglas ponders the question and offers this: "The things that I've heard white folks say about black people, even sometimes when it may be true, it hurts. dissertation writing help. That may be one reason people don't talk," he says.
Mike Huffendick, who is white, says he has conversations on many subjects with his African American co-workers, but acknowledges there are barriers that can't be crossed.
"I don't know what it's like to be a black man when the police are hassling you, or what not, so I don't know where they're coming from so I don't completely understand it," Huffendick says.
Ekene Okafor, who is black, and a student at Saint Louis University, believes some of the difficulty exists in preconceived, and often incorrect, notions. "I know so many blacks that just like, just have an idea of what white people in general think about them," he says.
Norman White speaks often of race in front of his students. "As criminal justice students you guys are like critical," he passionately tells one of his classes.
"I just kind of see this undertone," says Germaine Gregory, one of White's African American students, who then tells a story about her son being stopped by police while driving. She says there was no reason for the officer to stop him, other than his race.
Natalie Conners, a white students, points out that people of all races form their opinions on past experiences. "I feel that's been forgotten about," she says, "that this is like a two way street."
It's conversation White encourages in his classrooms, but that doesn't always come easily.
White says some of his students are afraid to share their personal thoughts on the role race plays in criminal justice, "because they're afraid that when they raise those issues in class, other people will think of them in bad ways, that they will judge them, they will label them."
To be labeled a racist, says White, is "the last thing you want to be on a college campus."
Yet that fear of engagement in honest conversation, says White, only makes things worse down the road.
"If they can't address the issue of race here, how will they address it when they become police officers, or corrections officers, or probation officers?" asks White.
White says the problem is further exacerbated by the separation between blacks and whites that still exists in many neighborhoods and schools.
"Not having that social interaction just creates this circumstance where it's really difficult to know how to talk to each other," he says.
That's not a problem for Okafor and his good friend Patrick Sweeney, who is white. The SLU bio-chemistry students are engaged in easy conversation at the campus student center.
Says Sweeney, "When you know somebody well enough he knows that whatever I say that might come off as offensive is not intending to be offensive at all."
"That happens a lot," says Okafor, concurring.
Peter Kohlberg, another sprinkler fitter, on his lunch break with Huffendick, throws up his hands. He is white and no fan of stifled conversations. "You can't walk around life like, 'I'm scared to talk to anybody about anything.' You've got to be able to talk or you get stuck in this rut we're in."
A few miles away, Sharon Randall and Barbara Hughes sit on a bus bench in Ferguson, impeccably dressed, warm smiles and African American.
"That's just the way I am," says Randall, "you give me a smile, I'm going to give you a smile back.
Both women have neighbors who are white. They insist no conversation is off limits.
"Even when the situation happened here," says Randall, "the lady that I work with, you know, she's Caucasian, and she just asked me, 'How are you doing?' That's a human question, that's not a black and white question. It made me feel good."
A white man, with a stick and a bucket of litter, approaches in the distance.
"That's Paul," says Hughes. "He does this every day, he cleans the neighborhood."
Paul Beins comes closer and the neighbors are quickly engaged in conversation."It's a matter of relationships," says Beins. Randall and Hughes nod in agreement.
They talk about the recent strife in Ferguson. Their honest exchange and ease with each other could be so instructive if others would listen.
"Until we get to know one another, we're going to have this problem constantly," says Beins.
Post Credit: King5
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