Don’t be a crab

For most of my life, I have been blessed to be in culturally diverse situations.  I attended a predominantly white school, so my mom was very intentional about giving me opportunities to be surrounded by many different kinds of people with varying backgrounds and cultures. 

My mom was also very clear about teaching me the dignity of life. She educated me through subtle but poignant examples. My momma taught public school for 33 years so I was witness to her world during my years of formation. 

I rode the bus to her school. As soon as I arrived I ran to the playground where she was on duty to meet up with my friends. Not many of my after-school friends looked like me nor did they wear a brown Mt. Carmel skirt but we sure loved to chase each other and play tetherball. 

The couple of hours I spent at my mom’s school in the afternoon also exposed me to many strong teachers and leaders of color and in retrospect, I see how much I learned about faith, love and respect.  One particular teacher down the hall from Mom has always been in my heart. She would rub my back as we walked down the hall and tell me how important I was and how important school was.  

Every time we would go to 6:30 (a.m.) daily Mass when we were kids she was there.  If we went to Saturday confession, there she was.  

We were back in Abbeville for the weekend some time ago and my husband and I decided to go to confession and there she sat. She was beautiful.  Tiny, blessed with age, oozing with the love of the Lord.  After 30 years she recognized my face and called me over by name. I melted.

That school was my afternoon and summer resting place for many years so I saw quite a few principals lead my mom. My favorite of all was a gentle giant of a man who would glide down the hall with his hands in his pockets and an honest smile on his face. 

I grew up playing basketball and he used to dunk on people at Nicholls State University as a Colonel so I liked talking to him about the game.  Most days when I got off the bus he would ask me if I learned anything new at school while I was trying to sneak by him. I would say, “yeh, I did” and he would gently remind me, “Now Smellen Ellen the proper response is yes, sir or I’ll even take a good, ‘Yes’ but not yeh; yeh is for your friends, ok?” He wasn’t fussing. He was teaching and checking for understanding all in a way I could receive it. I, to this day, repeat the same thing over and over to my kids because of his patience with me. 

My professional life has been graced with a lot of the same experiences because I also followed Mom’s example and became an educator. In the workplace, I have learned manners and simple etiquette as an adult from my friends of color. I recently asked my good pal, if growing up as a Black child did her parents make sure that she acknowledged everyone’s presence? I mean I feel as though I get a hello even when my back is turned.

 She laughed and said,  “Yep. You are correct. My momma said, ‘You speak to a dog if it crosses your path.’ ”  

What the black community has taught me is that in an informal email, quick text, a walk by, while pulling weeds or even in an emergency it is important to be deliberate about salutations. I once knocked and entered a classroom to ask a question and instead of getting the answer I was greeted very slowly. Then there was a pause, then I was answered.  

She was teaching me but also all the students in that room.  Again, like my favorite giant principal, it was a learning moment. I humbly noted it. I am now intentional about it with our kids. Salutations show concern for others before yourself. It is important.  

When we lived in Mississippi my oldest two children and I were in a Walmart check-out line. There was a woman behind us in a wheelchair so I asked if we could unload her groceries and then load them in her car. The cashier, who was Black,  told me and the girls that we were being very neighborly and it was so good to see. My oldest asked me what that meant because she wasn’t our neighbor. 

I wasn’t sure of it really, as I had not been called neighborly before. When we moved back to Louisiana we were the minority in our neighborhood. Previously I had never had real relationships with the people we had lived near so when we moved in I was shown what it means to be neighborly by the examples of my diverse neighbors. I thought back to that cashier and what she meant. It’s what the Lord meant at the Last Supper. Love your neighbor as yourself. 

For the past four years, I have prayed in the street with my neighbors, all of our kids bounce around raiding freezers for frozen treats. Other mommas drop our kids off at school when the bus never shows up. I learned a lot about how to be a community from how the Black community treats each other. As my oldest son describes it, “there’s always a bunch of dads talking outside” and what that means is the men who just got off work, some dressed in plant overalls, some in suits, others in coach warmups check in on each other. They make sure everyone is alright or just share a laugh before they go inside to be with their family. 

I recall when we first moved in my husband said how he admired the way Black men have that sense of belonging with each other. Soon enough, he was talking about the Bible in the yard too. Their support system is something to be admired. He was right. I saw it in education too. 

The first day of a new job in 2016 was 12 days after the flood. The Lord gifted me with a treasure that day. I sat next to a beautiful Black woman with long, red braids. I noticed she had a rosary bracelet that matched her hair. She asked where I was from and then we both noticed that we both talked “like dat.” We got real Cajun and Creole in the middle of a meeting.  From that day on we were a team. 

We loved each other immediately. No two people looked more different and no two people were more similar. She is the same pal that told me about acknowledging people’s presence. She also taught me the term “crabs in a barrel.” She describes it as a person who uses another person to lift themselves up by either climbing over their progress or pulling them down the mountain so they can get ahead. You know like crabs in a barrel trying anything they can to escape. 

She said don’t be a crab and also steer clear when you see one. It was her way of supporting me but also teaching me. We no longer work together but we pray together as often as possible and we giggle. We also occasionally eat boudin and sweet dough tarts for lunch. Her lesson brings a whole new meaning to “crabby” for me. We do not want to raise crabs. The Lord most certainly did not die for us to be a bunch of crabs to one another. He very, very, very specifically said on the night before his Passion that we are to be neighborly.  

The columnist is a Catholic mom living in the Diocese of Baton Rouge facing the same challenges all families face.