THE MASON DIXON LINE   by C. Hope Clark

    A Southern girl from Mississippi, I found myself uprooted at age 12 to unknown territory
north of the infamous Mason-Dixon Line. My Air Force father accepted a tour to Illinois in the late
sixties when desegregation was the topic of the media.
    Visions of rude, fast-talking, brash Yankees flashed briefly through my adolescent mind
from tales overheard from relatives. Although quiet, I never had been one to shy away from an
obstacle, and I never fretted over what I could not see. So I quickly brushed the thoughts away and
looked forward to joining the community and school with an open mind.
    The year was 1968. As a seventh grader, I excitedly wondered what the difference would be
in junior high school. My educational experience limited itself to one elementary school comprised
of mainly Air Force families in Mississippi. Although from a deeply Southern background, my
exposure to cultural diversity surpassed the average student in those days thanks to my military
upbringing and open-minded parents. Bigotry represented an alien concept in my young mind.
    The week before school started, mom registered me for school. Having waited outside the
office, I have no memory of the conversation that my mother later relayed to me as she spoke with
the registrar’s office.
    "We should be able to place your daughter in one of our remedial classes to help her catch
up to the current standards," came the comment to my mother. "Mississippi schools are so far
behind our schools up here."
    Hell has no fury like a mother for her child. Having been a straight A student, I enjoyed school and effortlessly amassed academic accomplishments. After my mother delivered a severe, but tasteful tongue-lashing in Dixie belle style, the registrar finalized my enrollment. Oblivious to any
controversy, I anxiously yearned for the first day.
    New kids on the block catch instant attention, of course. Politely introducing myself, I
puzzled over the standoffish feeling coming back to me. Only a very few would speak, and others
created an imaginary wall between me and another girl – a black girl. A couple weeks would lapse
before the news leaked to me that the class thought a Mississippi girl would hate any black person
alive. Well-liked, the girl grew up in the community, excelled in athletics, and held a position of
popularity in this seventh grade group. I represented a threat as the stereotyped Southern hick whose
grandfather had probably lynched blacks for thrills after a few Saturday night beers. Never exposed
to such malicious and unsolicited misjudgment, I escaped through reclusion.
    I threw myself into my books. The written word consoled me. Stories allowed other worlds
to open to my imagination and deport me from the present. And I could shut the pages when I
disliked what I saw and regain control, unlike my days at school. Maybe Yankees were the common,
contemptible lot laughed about back home.
    Next door, a girl my age, Lori, watched the activities without involvement. Equally quiet but
a bit more self-assured, she telephoned and asked to walk to school together. Now embittered and
distrusting of the natives, I excused myself. Luckily she proved resilient and persisted in making her
offer. I gave in, but refused to speak but in single syllables. Assuming ulterior motive, I vowed not
to be duped again by one of "these people." Conversation dragged, and I walked as fast as I could
just to act annoyed. And I hurt her feelings.
    Unknowingly, my own actions duplicated those of my adversaries. Misunderstanding her
intentions, I mistreated her. The children in my class misunderstood my intentions, and mistreated
me. As I entered puberty, I entered a new realization – that of discrimination.
    Looking back at that time, I marvel at the consciousness of my thought as a 12-year old girl.
    Disappointed at my own actions, I lamented the rudeness toward my neighbor who had genuinely
attempted to bridge the gap between the new kid in school and the natives. All these changes and
new environment unexpectedly threw me into a new dimension of socialization never experienced,
and I blamed everyone but myself. I exemplified an unknown to these schoolmates just as they
represented a challenge to me. If neither of us stepped forward, the chasm would remain.
    Returning the invitation to walk together, I knocked on Lori’s door. With a wide, accepting
smile, she agreed, and a fast friendship ensued. Slumber parties and boy talk evolved, and Lori .
opened my world to other friends, cheerleading tryouts, talent shows, and pep clubs. Always the
scholar and never the socialite, I adapted to pre-teen activities and the effervescence of wide-eyed,
precocious little girls, much to my delight.
    The first couple of weeks evolved into months. The little Southern girl proved to the school
district that she had a brain as the straight A’s continued. When I never exhibited a noose or a white
hood, the children realized the prematurity of their preconceived notions about Southerners. Without aid of teacher or textbook, we taught ourselves a heady lesson about prejudice. Bigotry represented a plain fear of the unfamiliar
    To the best of my abilities, my behavior mirrors the philosophy developed by that hurt seventh grader. Whether that course of events or simple maturity instilled my present day convictions, this Mississippi girl understands the painful stigma of stereotyping individuals. She has felt it, she has done it, and she has experienced the repercussions of both the reception and deliverance of hasty judgement. And she has learned that if twelve and thirteen-year-old children can interpret and correct their actions of narrow-mindedness, adults have no excuse.
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