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Or, Why I Love Mister Rogers My obsession with the racial composition of neighborhoods probably began when I was four years old. For much of my childhood (until I was fourteen), my mother and I were the only nonwhite people for miles around in the Ventura, California, neighborhood where I grew up. Local police once told my mother that the location of our house was identified with a red pushpin on the map that hung on the precinct wall—not because they thought we would cause trouble, but because they were concerned that others might cause trouble for us. From what I have been told—and from what I remember—I integrated the El Camino Elementary School when I entered kindergarten. Until about fourth grade, when students were bused in from a predominantly Latino neighborhood, I remember only one other black child, and even with busing there were few students of color. My fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Romero, was the only nonwhite teacher. Nothing overtly bad ever happened to us in our neighborhood, but I never quite felt like I fit in either. There were other children around. We went to school together and were even friendly; still, something always felt a little amiss. I remember seeking out playmates and play dates with little reciprocity. For example, there were few sleepovers for many of those years. In hindsight, I see that my sense of not fitting in, of being excluded , had much more to do with the attitudes of the parents than with the children themselves. I also have vivid memories of nearly every argument I was a part of turning racial. For some of my closest friends— and for my staunchest adversaries—the first stone to be thrown was the “N-word.” I think it was this lack of predictability and subtle lack of a sense of belonging that made Mister Rogers so appealing to me. Throughout elementary school Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood was one of my favorite televi1 Introduction sion shows. In fact, to this day his theme song holds a special place in my heart:1 It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, A beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine? Could you be mine? This middle-aged white man was singing to me. The neighborhood he sang about was one where I and, I believed, others like me belonged. I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you. I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you. As a child, perhaps I wished that my own neighbors, teachers, and classmates (and their parents) could feel that way about me and my mom. Instead, I seemed always to be on edge, waiting for the next racial hand grenade to be thrown. This experience lasted for more than a decade of my formative years and fundamentally shaped the way I look at and think about cities and neighborhoods. So began my obsession. Throughout my young adulthood, I naively believed that one day we would see Dr. King’s dream realized, that, as Rodney King pleaded, one day we would all “just get along.” It was impressed upon me that relations between the races were much better than they ever had been: opportunities and access were expanding, and attitudes among whites were becoming more favorable. At the same time, my mother taught me early that, because we were black, we would “have to work twice as hard to get half as far.” Implicit in her lesson was an acknowledgment that prejudice and discrimination were alive and kicking, despite any assertions to the contrary. My father is a white man and a junior college sociology instructor; he explained American race relations to me using conflict theories. I came to understand that the racial prejudice of whites is motivated not just by ignorance but also by concerns about maintaining an advantaged position. My family’s presence in a neighborhood of all-white, owner-occupied households challenged our neighbors’ ideas about how things “ought” to be. And the fact that I excelled academically and earned my place at the head of the class—ahead of white students—challenged their beliefs about black intellectual inferiority. In spite of the prejudice we encountered, I grew up believing that someday, somehow, I would see the day when Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (the one I imagined at least) was a reality, not just for me, but for our country as a whole. 2 Won’t You Be My Neighbor...

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