Anytown Delaware - Bringing Diversity to Lewes

“Here” was a unique summer-camp-meets-diversity-training called “Anytown, Delaware,” a program sponsored by the National Conference on Community and Justice. Delegates aged 14 to 18 from high schools, Boys and Girls Clubs, Girl Scout troops and community centers across the state had been chosen to represent their communities. They’d come to learn about bias, bigotry, discrimination, and oppression-to hear the stories of others and to tell their own.

As an advisor-one of eight adults who would guide the delegates through the week’s activities-I was expected to tell my story too. I’d talk about what it is to be an able-bodied middle-class white man in a racist, sexist, ableist, classist society. Hopefully, I’d be able to convey that I wasn’t their enemy, but their ally. What they didn’t know was that I would eventually tell these 25 delegates that I was a gay man. What I didn’t know was whether or not I’d be able to do it.

I’ll admit I was scared. Some of these kids (er, delegates) were from inner-city housing projects. I’m embarrassed to admit it now, but had I met them the night before on a dark street, I would probably have gone in the opposite direction. The delegates who appeared to come from more privileged households scared me less-until we announced that everyone was expected to be at breakfast at 8 a.m. sharp the next day, and I heard a chorus of teenage girls whining, “Ugh, that is so gay.” Great.

The first day was all about team building. We played games that were fun, but cleverly designed to force people to trust each other with little things-since they’d have to trust each other with big things later on. Advisors and delegates played together. They would have to trust me as the week went on. And I’d need to trust them.

As requested, the delegates arrived the next morning promptly at eight. Each was given a “disability”-some blindfolded, others given earplugs and told to be silent. Lucky delegates assisted a blind person; unlucky ones were denied use of a limb. For the next two days we discussed oppression of the disabled, lower classes, young, old, and those of different faiths. We defined oppression, privilege, power, discrimination, and bias.

And slowly, the delegates emerged from their shells. One boy, a tall, lanky African-American who wore a doo-rag on his head, boxer-baring baggy jeans and untied sneakers during the day, emerged at night in a pair of striped flannel PJ’s. Looking like somebody’s grandpa he was greeted with laughter from his peers and quickly christened “Pop Pop” He proved to be as gentle as any grandfather you could imagine. Saturday was Day 4. In the morning, I led an exercise called the “Level Playing Field.” Delegates stood shoulder to shoulder in a straight line facing me, as I read from my binder. “If one or both your parents completed college, please step forward. If one or both your parents never completed high school, please step back.” Suddenly, the line wasn’t so straight.

“If your ancestors were forced to move to this country, or ever forced out of their homes, take a step back. If you think police officers are there to help you in times of emergency, step forward.” By the end of the exercise, I was nose-to-nose with a sea of white faces. Behind the whites were Latinos, East Indians, and a few African-Americans. The majority of black faces were backed up against the wall, seeing nothing in front of them but the backs of heads.

Then I announced we would race to the wall behind me. Go! Many delegates in the back sprinted forward, but had no chance of winning; all the white kids had to do was lift their hand and touch the wall in front of them; the race was over before it began.

So we talked about the “Level Playing Field,” in this safe space, with people we were coming to trust. White delegates and advisors could safely share our stories while people of color could relate their experiences in the same safe space. It wasn’t the first time I’d engaged in these discussions, but I learn something every single time.

That night, our activity was “Crossing the Lines.” Again shoulder to shoulder, delegates and advisors faced two of my colleagues, who stood at the “target” side of the room. One read, “If you grew up in poverty, as opposed to the middle or upper classes, please move to the target side of the room.” Several delegates and advisors moved there and faced me. Then, we heard some sobering statistics about people who grow up in impoverished homes. It was very difficult to hear, especially as you looked into the faces of those experiencing this in their own lives. Other groups were then asked to move to the target side: children and grandchildren of immigrants, descendants of slaves or Jews, and then teenagers.

About halfway through the activity, one of my colleagues read, “if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered, please move to the target side of the room.” I walked forward. I could see three of my peers walking with me. We weren’t joined by any delegates. When I turned to face the students I’d been laughing, crying, dining and learning with for the past four days, I was greeted with open mouths and eyes as big as saucers. I had just turned a very sharp corner. And there were three more days to go.

When the activity was over, we went back to our now-familiar circle. While the exercise stirred up many troubling issues for our delegates-like learning that disabled people are 60% more likely to be unemployed, or one quarter of all women in this country will be raped-it wasn’t surprising that the first issue to be raised by the delegates centered around sexuality.

“Why’d you guys lie to us?” was the first question. “I don’t understand why you were so ashamed of your sexuality.”

Luckily, I didn’t have to field that question. Another delegate quickly responded with, “I’m glad they waited. If I stepped off that bus three days ago and Eric came up to me and said, ‘Hi, I’m Eric and I’m gay,’ I would have gone right back home.”

This seemed to be the consensus. “We know them as people now, not just gay people. She’s still Amena. She’s still Lisa. He’s still Eric.”

Naturally, there was dissent. “I look at it from a Biblical perspective,” said one delegate. “In my house, I’m allowed to respect homosexual people as people, but I’m not allowed to respect their actions.” Later, he would use words like “sick” and “unnatural.”

I was neither surprised nor offended by these words; I’d been expecting them. Here was a child raised in a fundamentalist household, who accompanied his parents to picket gay events and abortion clinics for years. He could speak about racism and classism, but when it came to gay issues, he could only speak of what he was “allowed” to think. For the remainder of the retreat, he spoke with the lesbians on staff, but could or would not speak to me. I only hope that when he leaves his house, he’ll allow his mind to open, just a bit. I hope he’ll remember his experience at Anytown. Mostly, I hope he never questions his own sexuality. I have no doubt that if gay, his parents would disown him immediately, or worse-he’d become another kind of statistic.

The next day, our topic was sexism. This day held the biggest surprise for me. I expected emotional discussions the day before, and wasn’t disappointed. But I was not prepared for the delegates’ bravery on this day. Three of the boys talked about having attempted suicide after not being able to “be a man” as their communities had defined that term.

Several of the girls talked about their experiences with rape. Heartbreakingly, the room fit into the one-in-four statistic pretty well. I saw boys who had never been taught to look at their female peers as human beings. I witnessed them understanding, for the first time, their mothers, sisters, and friends. Midway through the day, we conducted a silent exercise; all you had to do was to look into someone’s eyes. At the end of the exercise, very few of those eyes were dry.

The next evening, we gathered for Talent Night, a summer camp staple. However, you’d be hard pressed to find a traditional Hindu “Prayer Dance” performed in full costume, at your typical summer camp. Another delegate, who’d been methodically breaking my heart all week, shared a poem. The confidence and surety of his poetic voice belied his sad eyes and rocky history. When he finished, I could do little more than applaud and shake my head.

Too soon after, the delegates were heading home. As I stood with several of my colleagues waving goodbye, there was no question that we had significantly opened some minds, hearts, and eyes. But questions lingered. Why don’t all children learn this stuff? Why isn’t diversity taught in our schools? Why is it left to a non-profit organization to write grants and stretch every dollar for seven months to make this one week possible? In a nation that preaches equality, how can we be so lax about fighting prejudice? Do we not see it? Or do we simply not care?