Appendix 1: Author Perspectives

Appendix 1: Author Perspectives Why Philanthropy? Why Nonprofits? Why Gender and Race? n this chapter we discuss our own backgrounds and reasons for participating in the research and writing process of this Ibook. Each of us was shaped by profound experiences as children, throughout our education and in our professional lives. By sharing these stories, we hope to encourage more research and writing in the area of race, gender, philanthropy, and nonprofit leadership. Bigotry and Generosity: The Impetus for My Research Marybeth Gasman I grew up in a family of ten children in a very rural area of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We were horribly poor. I often tell people, “We were so poor that when my mom made chipped beef on toast, there wasn’t any beef.” My mom did the best she could on about $7,000 a year. People often ask how ten children and their parents could survive on so little money. The answer: we grew and made everything. As a child, I learned how to can fruits, make jams and jellies, wax vegetables for winter, cut sides of meat, gut fish and deer, and bake pies. Ironically, as an adult I do not eat meat. Oftentimes our neighbors gave us clothes, fed us breakfast, and drove us places when our old car broke down. I wasn’t embar- rassed to receive this kind of help, because it just seemed normal 112 ● Race, Gender, and Leadership in Nonprofit Organizations to me. Everyone in our neighborhood helped one another. Peo- ple sometimes even helped those they did not like as we were interdependent in many ways. As children, we entertained ourselves. We did not have a tele- vision or any fancy games; we made up games. We climbed apple trees and shook them for fun, flooded the backyard to make an ice rink during winter, played “kick the can,” and rode the tractor for sport. I remember making homes for my blond, bikini-clad Barbies out of old record albums and tape. My little sister and I entertained each other for hours with these makeshift Barbie homes. We had no idea that we were poor. Of course our parents knew, but we kids thought that everyone lived this way. It was not until eighth grade, when our house burned to the ground and we had to live in temporary housing in a nearby small city, that we real- ized we were poor. I noticed what others had and the access that money—albeit not much—gave people. It was then that I dis- covered that I was on free lunch and that my school uniforms had been worn by my brothers and sisters before I wore them (it became a point of ridicule among kids at school). I wondered why my blouses were not white and why my tights had holes in the knees. I did not say much about my thoughts and feelings to anyone, because I knew it would hurt my mom and dad. My mom was lovely, although she cried a lot. She tried her best to hide her tears, but her struggle was hard. My father was an adequate husband. Yet, he was resentful and jealous of others’ accomplishments. He was bitter, and this emotion resulted in very little love shown toward my mother. Instead, he verbally abused her, labeling her stupid because of her lack of education. She did what she needed to raise her children and get through the madness that had her trapped in a life she had never envisioned. Perhaps what I admire most about my mom and why I am talking about her in an essay about philanthropy and nonprofit leadership is that she gave generously of herself while always speaking up and pushing back. In a provincial town, where many people conformed and took part in bigotry, my mom did not. She was acceptingofeveryone. Appendix 1: Author Perspectives ● 113 Sadly, my father was the opposite. When I wrote that he was bitter earlier, I was referring to his hatred of others, be they Blacks, Latinos, or Asians. Native Americans were spared for some reason (more than likely because my father was actually half American Indian). I grew up hearing my father say nigger, spic, Jap, and chink. But, I also grew up with a mother who told me that these words were wrong and hurtful. She washed our mouths out with soap if we ever repeated these words. I saw my older brothers endure the Zest or Dove bar many times. In my heart I knew those words were wrong and did not say them. My mom told us that hatred of someone on the basis of race, or color, or wealth was wrong. Of note, there were no African Americans, Latinos, or Asians living in our town or within 150 miles from us at any point during my childhood (and even today, the town has not changed much). But that didn’t stop my father or many of the other resi- dents of our town from hating these racial and ethnic groups. Oh, they were fun to laugh at on Sanford and Son and Chico and the Man, but you wouldn’t want “those people” as friends. Minorities were easy targets. My father did anything he could to convince us that African Americans were bad and that we should always hold them suspect. “Martin Luther King was a rabble rouser and didn’t really believe in peaceful protest.” “Malcolm X was anti-American.” “Blacks were dirty and lazy; they just wanted a hand out.” Ironically, my father was always trying to get government cheese, and he stole from his employer time and time again. Many of my school teachers reinforced these stereotypical, racist ideas. I learned nothing about African American history and culture with the exception of slavery (and that was whisked over and romanticized, and of course, there was no blame to be had). I heard teachers say derogatory things about Blacks. My Catholic grade school had a slave auction and was not apologetic about it. As a small child, I didn’t see a problem with the slave auction. I didn’t even know what slavery was, let alone the horrors of Jim Crow. Our local coffee shop was called “Little Black Sambos” and had a young African boy being chased by a tiger on the sign and on the menus. I thought Sambo was cute. The local bakery had big fat 114 ● Race, Gender, and Leadership in Nonprofit Organizations cookie jars decorated like a Black woman. I dug my hand in for a cookie never thinking twice about the image on the jar. I went to “Sambos” and the bakery with my father; my mother never took me to these places. As my mom saw my father’s influence on her children, she worked to counter it—ever so patiently. She told us not to lis- ten to him. She confided in us—telling us how my dad blamed minorities for his lack of success, for his problems. She told us that she had grown up in Flint, Michigan, living next door to a Black family, and that they were “just like you and me.” When she married my father she had no idea that he held such racist views. Many times these views do not surface for years, and by that time shehadtoomanykidstomakeitonherown.Shefelttrapped. And as a result, she endured his hostile and shameful verbiage. Through our mother, some of us learned that prejudice is wrong and that we should speak up for others and confront injustice. Unfortunately, not all of my siblings learned this lesson—some of them harbor horrible thoughts and school their children in racist ideas. I no longer speak to these siblings—a choice I had to make when I had my own child. Because of my mother, despite growing up in a racist and exclusionary environment, I chose to pursue a research agenda and scholarly life dedicated to issues of race. It makes sense to my mother. My father couldn’t understand until very late in his life why his daughter would care so much about equity. In the spirit of true irony, my father had a stroke, and we placed him in a nursing home near my sister in Tennessee. Unlike the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, there are African Americans in Tennessee, and my father’s roommate in the nursing home (he had a roommate because he could not afford a private room) was an African American man. Although disgusted and belligerent about the idea at first, my father grew to love the man and the man’s family. They became close friends, and when I would visit him, the two of them would be sitting in rocking chairs laughing and sharing stories. A few months before my father died, he told me that he had been wrong about Blacks. He cried in my arms about the life of anger and hatred he had lived for over 80 years; he was proud Appendix 1: Author Perspectives ● 115 of me for standing up against his racist beliefs. Sadly, he never acknowledged the work of my mother—a poor, abused, White woman who could have grown bitter—to push back against his influence over her children; he continued to resent her. Given the example of my mother (and my father for that mat- ter), my interest in race and equity might make sense. Despite not knowing anyone of another race or ethnicity (outside of Native Americans) until graduate school, I felt compelled to make a dif- ference in the world.

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