The Butler, the Patriot, and the Patriot’s Daughter: A Tale of Three Servants



Eugene Allen with the Reagans
(Family photo)

Yesterday, I went to see Lee Daniels’ The Butler—a film inspired by Wil Haygood's Washington Post article titled “A Butler Well Served by This Election.” Haygood’s article highlighted the 34-year long career of White House butler EugeneAllen in the context of a brief history of African-Americans in the White House.

In fact, it’s only thanks to Haygood (who once played a butler during his short-lived acting career) that any of us have ever heard of Eugene Allen's courageous journey against hatred. Prior to President Obama’s first election, Haygood went in search of someone who had lived inside the White House when “the very idea of a black man in the Oval Office seemed impossible.” Just a few days prior to President Obama’s historic election, he found Eugene and Helene Allen. Sadly, unlike in the film, Helene never got to cast her vote for the first African-American president. She died on November 6, 2007, the night before the election.

Since the film was only “inspired” by Allen’s life, much of the story was altered for dramatic effect, but some of the more touching moments were true. Allen was actually devastated by President Kennedy’s death. His only son Charles shared that that day was the first time he’d ever seen his father cry. Nancy Reagan did invite Allen and his wife, Helene, to a state dinner for German Chancellor Helmut Kohl. Allen’s character and ethic of impeccable service really was as depicted. And, Allen was actually invited to attend President Obama’s inauguration ceremony.
 

Although screenplay writer Danny Strong and director Lee Daniels took liberties with the facts, the spirit of the story remains true. It is a story of incredible courage in the face of nearly unbearable hatred that is sadly rooted in our nation's history, and still bears fruit today. Many families really were torn apart by the generational differences between parents and children over the burgeoning modern Civil Rights movement, both African-American and white families.

As I sat watching this retelling of these often horrifying events (some played by the film’s actors and some actual news footage), I grew increasingly uncomfortable with a painful reality. Although I lived through most of these events, my whiteness allowed me and my family to avoid and/or be largely unaffected by this dramatic history unfolding around us.

I was two months old when teenager Emmett Till was murdered for whistling at a white woman in Mississippi, and barely 6 months old when civil rights activist Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat to a white man on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama. Only a year before, the Supreme Court had opened the way for desegregation by striking down the long-standing “separate but equal” doctrine in Brown v. Board of Education. And, these were just a few early events of what was to become the modern Civil Rights movement.

As the white, blue-eyed, blond-haired last child of four born to a middle class family, I have only vague remembrances of most these events, such as the day I saw black and white images on our home television of African-Americans being beaten by police while cities burned, and heard one of my parents commenting on the looting of stores with "there's no excuse for that."

What is most notable about these remembrances is the absence of thoughtful conversation about what was unfolding before our eyes on TV (but not in our neighborhood) because I spent many hours in conversation with my dad about other things. I can only assume that this was another manifestation of white privilege. It wasn't discussed because it wasn't considered part of our world.

As a Baptist minister’s oldest son, my dad grew up with a profound ethic of service. But, he also grew up with many unanswered questions about the meaning of life. When he left home for college, he began studying other religions and philosophies, and that quest for understanding continued until his last breath. I can't know if he ever found his answers, but I can look at the way he lived. Like Eugene Allen he lived a life of service, albeit a very different kind of service due to race privilege.

He started out in ROTC at Virginia Tech, and was later admitted to the U.S. Naval Academy. He graduated in 1941 and his first duty was Pearl Harbor, Hawaii where he was asleep on a destroyer the morning of December 7^th when the first Japanese bombs flew. He ended the war as a fighter pilot on the USS Essex from which he flew a sortie over the USS Missouri on September 2, 1945 as the Japanese signed surrender documents. I only learned of these experiences a few years before he died, when a historian gathering oral histories from Pearl Harbor survivors interviewed my father.

Dad resigned from the Navy a couple of years before I was born, but he continued to work for the government—indirectly via defense contractors as an aerospace engineer and directly in several government positions. For most of my life, I knew very little about my father’s work except that it caused us to move more than I liked.
 



Dad and me after tennis, 1979

One sunny Saturday afternoon in the late 1980s, I was sitting on the back porch of my parent’s home talking with dad about life as we frequently did. I said, “Dad, I have this story that I tell people when they ask why we moved so much and what my father did. But, how would you describe your career?” Dad paused for a moment to puff on his thick Bering cigar, and then quietly said “I was a patriot.”

That simple, but profound, reply said it all. My dad, the son of a Baptist minister, had found his call to service, but it was service to the ideal of the United States of America. His every professional choice was in service to this country. But, he was also wise enough to question some of those choices when merited.

I remember him sitting and weeping when the secret cables leading up to World War II were finally released under the Freedom of Information Act. He was heartbroken to discover that President Roosevelt knew the Japanese planned to bomb Pearl Harbor and had let it happen.

I remember another time when after reading a history of events leading up to the war in Vietnam (where he served as Science Advisor to General Abrams) he sorrowfully said “we never should have been there.” He also found it shameful that a disproportionate number of young African-American men died in that war because they were unable to get the draft deferments that many whites received.

These two stories demonstrate how my dad was always willing to reconsider his previous understanding when given new evidence. And, that’s why I’m surprised that we never talked about the Civil Rights (or women’s) movement that was unfolding right before our eyes. No one alive at that time could have avoided knowing about the dramatic changes that were happening for people of color in the United States. The only explanation for not discussing it is that it wasn't considered "relevant."

In fact, the only time I remember discussing these events was in 1971 shortly after we returned to the United States after two years in Southeast Asia. For me, living as a blonde-haired, blue-eyed US American in Southeast Asia, gave me a glimpse of the experience of being the “other.” I began to understand (admittedly, only as much as any young white woman could) what it was like to be judged by the “color of your skin rather than the content of your character.”

When I returned to the United States, I attended Newton High School which included mostly white students from the middle class suburb where we lived, and a few African-American students who were bussed to school from Roxbury—a working class neighborhood in Boston. During this period, I became close friends with an African-American student, volunteered for the Shirley Chisholm for President campaign, and began reading books about the Civil Rights movement. That was when I had the only conversation I remember with my dad about race in America, and it was just some questions about why I was reading these books.

Looking back, I understand that my experience of otherness while living as an American in Southeast Asia had created a natural empathy for the African-American experience in the US. I say this knowing full well that I can never really understand the brutality of racism in a lifetime where I have transited the world as a white person. However, my activism was short-lived as I struggled to readjust after living overseas so my dad could participate in what had become a very unpopular war.

Ultimately, my adolescent angst and need to belong trumped my quest to understand what African-Americans were fighting for. And, that’s the hallmark of race privilege, I had the luxury of making that choice to quit paying attention and to stop contributing to constructive change. My African-American friend did not.

Almost 20 more years would pass before I would pay attention to these issues again. Those years were marked by the actions of many courageous men and women who stood up to oppression and made a real difference—they changed laws, but more importantly, they changed our hearts and minds as a nation. My interest was reawakened when I returned to school to finish my bachelor’s degree, and that was quickly followed by a master’s and doctorate that focused on social justice.

Today, with more experience and more knowledge, I can say without equivocation that there are no black and white answers (pun intended) to the question of how so much hate can still survive in this country that serves as the model of democracy for so many in the world. The history of race privilege and oppression in the United States is a long and complex one, and it will take more than my lifetime to unravel those twisted threads.

However, amidst the persistent hatred, there are those who choose a different path and their bright spirits light the way for us all. Although they worked in very different social spheres in large part due to what race oppression and race privilege made possible for them, the lives of Eugene the butler and John the patriot are woven together by a shared thread—their lived commitment to service. Each served with quiet dignity. Each served with courage. Each positively transformed the lives of those who knew them. And, each, without ever knowing it, has demonstrated the profound difference that one life can make.

Both of their lives have taught me that whatever path unfolds before us, if it is lived with care, empathy, and respect, one life can help tilt the social scale away from hate and toward respect.




Me with Cheryl Espinoza
2009

As for me, the patriot's daughter, my service has taken a different form. As a teacher, I strive to create a beloved learning community within which each student's innate capacity for care, empathy, and respect is reawakened. I hope that by teaching them some of this history, I am applying my white privilege toward a greater good.

I view teaching and learning as a never ending spiral. And, my journey of service has led me to believe that we are all in service (or, at least, we should be)—to each other.

PLEASE COMMENT: This piece began as an effort to honor the real butler Eugene Allen while discussing white privilege—a concept that is difficult for many whites to understand. When I started writing, it took on its own life and this is what was born. I especially welcome comments from folks of color since I worry that it may come across as white-woman-why-can't-we-all-just-get-along pandering, which was not my intent.