When I was a kid, my father was appointed as a justice
to the state Court of Appeals. Two years later, he had to run for reelection.
My father had earlier been elected a state legislator a few times, but this was
the first time he would be running for state-wide office. To make matters more difficult,
the former state Attorney General decided to run against my dad. Not only that
but the former Attorney General had previously run for governor. Everybody in
the state had heard of this guy’s name. No one (outside of our former county)
had ever heard of my dad. This was going to be a difficult election for him to
win.
One of the strategies he decided on was to get out and
meet people. This included visiting some African American churches in the
Portland area. On one of those visits, I went with him. I was twelve years old.
I was about as milk-white as a white boy can be, and my family was the epitome
of middle-class milk-white. The places I had grown up had very few persons of
color. We were a family that believed in the civil rights movement. I certainly
did, but I had almost no exposure to black people personally. I don’t think I
had ever been in a room that had more than one black person in it. So, when my
father and I walked into that church it was a whole new world for me. We milled
around a bit before the service and my father talked to some of the people. There
was a dear old lady who took us under her wing. Everyone was friendly and nice.
But when the service started, oh, my little white-boy
brain was about to be blown. I had been to church every Sunday. I knew what
church was like. It was quiet, somber; nobody said anything but the preacher.
When called upon to sing hymns, I never opened my mouth, nor did any of my
family. We just stood there respectfully and listened. Some people sang, but we
didn’t. But this church was very different. The first thing I noticed
was that the people in the pews participated in the service. They exclaimed,
they nodded, they Amen-ed, they spoke up. There was an informal call and
response between the preacher and his congregation. When they sang, they didn’t
just sing, they lived the song. I had never seen such passion. It kind
of disturbed me at first. But as it went on, I guess it sort of normalized in
my brain. It was okay. These people were feeling it. It made me feel like I
could drop my guard a bit and get that big pasty-white-middle-class stick out
of my butt.
It is hard not to feel something when surrounded by
that passion. This was a culture shock. But it was a pleasant culture shock. I
would not say that I was tempted to join in (I was very shy and reserved), but it
was fascinating to watch. This was one of those moments in your life when you must
pay attention.
My father wound up losing that election as expected,
but I was glad I got to experience the church and the people in the church.
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