It was in the early 1990s. I will never forget the day. It was the day before the 4th of July.
I was in the men’s bathroom/changing room at our company. Among other services, we provided law enforcement officers to federal agencies.
SGT Green, (not his real name) was a law enforcement officer and supervisor, he was very professional and carried himself with a forthright bearing. I knew him because we had worked together on some previous projects.
It was the last few minutes before the end of the workday and SGT Green was changing out of uniform into civilian clothes. Our conversation went as such:
ME: (In a good mood) SGT Green, what have you got planned for the weekend?
SGT GREEN: Nothing much.
ME: Nothing? Seriously? No BBQ? No fireworks?
SGT GREEN. Seriously, nothing.
ME: (In mock surprise): Really? It’s our nation’s birthday, the day we got our freedom.
SGT GREEN: (looking at me in a mix of pity, sadness and weariness): It's the day some of us got our freedom.
ME: (Crickets chirping)
I could not have been more dumbfounded and crushed if an aircraft carrier had appeared in the sky and dropped on my head.
In just an instant, I clearly saw the divide between how SGT Green and his ancestors and mine had experienced America. This was in the deep south.
A series of images popped up and flashed across my mind — of my Illinois white ancestors and his black Carolina ancestors and how we likely experienced this holiday.
It was a mortifying, revelatory and unforgettable.
I just stood there, incapable of reply. SGT GREEN finished dressing, locked his locker and strode out the door.
He ruined that 4th of July holiday. In fact, he ruined every one thereafter because I never fail to consider the hypocrisy I learned and lived about celebrating our freedom when it was so very, very far from inclusive.
For this, I shall forever be in his debt.
