The Power of Testimony

RUINED
a principal and my mother as a teacher—​ and my four siblings and I
attended Christian schools from kindergarten through high school.
In my graduating class of 120, there were only 2 black students.
One was a girl who’d been adopted by well-​ meaning parents
who spoke with a Dutch accent; the other was a boy with a single
mother, another fact that highlighted how atypical he was. Most of
my classmates had last names that showed Dutch roots, beginning
with Van or De or ending with a (-sma, -stra, or -ga), as mine did.
In my world, no one had trouble pronouncing Huizenga.
The nearby city of Paterson was crime ridden, and on the local
evening news I frequently saw mug shots of men who had been
apprehended. Their faces were dark skinned and sullen. I was fascinated
by the height markers behind them, which seemed to be
forever taking their measure, and by their names, which sounded to
me like strung-​ together syllables rather than proper names.
The talk at our family dinner table often touched on various
“home mission” efforts organized by our denomination. One church
worked with ex-​offenders, another with drug addicts. My father’s
school, Eastern Christian Junior High, was located in Prospect Park,
a community adjoining Paterson. He faced severe criticism for leaving
the gates to the school’s parking lot unlocked after hours so local
youth could play basketball there in the evenings.
Dad told us, “People say they’re worried about security. But they
wouldn’t complain if those boys were white. The fact is, they’re
Negro.”
“Don’t say Negro,” my older brother, Tim, said. “Say black.”
“On the farm my uncles said much worse! They called them
darkies, ’ coons—”
“That’s enough, Nick!” my mother warned. “Don’t repeat the
rest of that poison. There are big ears in the cornfield.”
I remember watching these exchanges and taking in the power
of language. But to me all the words—Negro, black— really meant
the same thing: other.
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