When I was in grade school, we learned the Nazis came to power in a time of economic dislocation, the worldwide Great Depression.  We learned Germany was a once-great nation in decline after the military defeat of World War I and the Nazis appealed simultaneously to the fears and the nationalism of the German people.  We learned Jews were singled out for persecution because many Germans saw them as outsiders.  The Nazis knew Jews could be easily marginalized and used to whip up prejudicial fervor.  We were told that although terrible things happened in Germany, those terrible things were the work of a minority; that most people hadn’t taken part, but they also didn’t do anything to stop it, because they were afraid of the Nazis.

At lunch, on the schoolyard, we boys told each other that if we had been there, we would have done something, because we knew the Nazis were wrong.  That was the puzzling part.  How could people not know the Nazis were wrong?  There were movies and tee vee shows about the Nazis and it was so clear that they were wrong and evil.  How could people fail to do the right thing?

Nazi-era Germany was the only example in our grade school morality lesson.  We didn’t talk about the civil rights movement.  That was still ongoing and close by.  My parish school was filled with white children of working class families and I imagine there was not unanimity on civil rights questions (or if there was unanimity, it was not of an opinion anyone would be proud of today).

There was a three-day race riot in Rochester in 1964.  One of my classmate’s grandfathers was a police officer who was hit in the head and was never the same after.  Besides, if “they” (African-Americans, known at the time as “the coloreds”) got what they wanted, it might mean change in our neighborhoods, our schools, our parents’ workplaces.  We just didn’t talk about civil rights.

So there’s the pattern: questions of morality that were long ago, far away, long since settled with conclusions reinforced by Hollywood culture were safe and we were all sure we’d have done the right thing, if only we’d been there (which we weren’t).  Issues that were up close and contemporary and might cost us something – money, privilege or the comfort of complacency – well, we’re all doing the best we can to get through the month.  You shouldn’t expect too much.

A few years later, adolescence and Watergate were both upon me and we were beginning to discuss civil rights.  I didn’t feel like there was much I could do about Watergate, but I did make myself one promise: not to look away.  If I could do nothing else, I said I would not hide from unpleasant truths about my country and society, not to allow myself to become distracted or try to convince myself that things were OK when they were not.

I’ve had increasing reasons for keeping that promise – even though doing so has become proportionally uncomfortable – for the past three and a half decades.  Depending on the year and the issue, I’ve felt at times like I’ve done everything possible to put myself between evil and those it would harm.  Other times, I feel I’ve borne an all-too-quiet witness from a safe and comfortable distance.  I didn’t look away, but that’s about all I can say for myself.

This week, the nation’s harshest legal persecution of undocumented immigrants went into effect in Alabama.  Like the Jews of Depression-era Germany, they are a group easily seen as outsiders, marginalized and used to whip up nationalist prejudice.

A federal judge, Sharon Lovelace Blackburn, “upheld the parts of the law allowing state and local police to ask for immigration papers during routine traffic stops, rendering most contracts with illegal immigrants unenforceable and requiring schools to ascertain the immigration status of children at registration time,” the New York Times reports.

From what I remember of those European history lessons, it sounds eerily familiar.  When a less-severe law went into effect in Arizona a few years ago, there was national outcry.  Conventions and vacations were cancelled.  I’m not hearing that this week.  Is that because Alabama is not as tourist-dependent as Arizona or do we have higher expectations for Arizona?  Is there a callus forming where compassion used to be?

What can I do?  At a minimum, I can remember I once promised not to look away.

© Mark Floegel, 2011