(This article was originally published in the Contra Costa Times on Dec. 4, 1999)

It has been 36 years since Dr. Martin Luther King captured the hearts and minds of America with his “I have a dream” speech. Judging by the angry response to the passage of Proposition 209 in California not long ago, it looks as if a few people think Dr. King’s dream is dead and that the only way to judge others is by the color of their skin rather than by “the content of their character.”
To demonstrate how wrong such a view really is, I’d like to tell you a true story about my friend Ella Rogers.
I first met Ella in 1977 when she was a student in my Adult Basic Education class in Trenton, N.J. Like most of the other students in this federally funded Work Incentive program, Ella was a single African American mom on welfare. She had lived in the “Projects” of Trenton all 40 years of her life, and our entrance test indicated that Ella was reading at below the fourth grade level.
Ella was determined to get her GED. She attended classes faithfully every day for several months. She studied hard and was eventually admitted to the regular GED program. Her struggle to succeed had only just begun.
I’ll never forget that first day in Ella’s Algebra 1 class when she tried to offer a solution to a word problem my team teacher had written on the chalkboard. As soon as Ella raised her hand, my colleague remarked sarcastically, “Ella, put your hand down. You couldn’t think your way out of a paper bag.”
I suppose this teacher must have been having a bad day. She (as she was always eager to tell anyone who would listen) had recently been through a very bitter divorce. Nevertheless, I was appalled such a person could be so callous in her treatment of Ella.
After class, I took Ella aside and apologized for my tactless teammate. Ella just waved her hand and said, “Don’t pay her no min’, Bruce. She jus’ ignorant.”
Ella was right, of course. In spite of her college degrees and certificate, my colleague knew nothing — or had somehow forgotten — about human feeling.
I had already gotten to know Ella pretty well by then; after this incident we shared an even deeper understanding.
One day, Ella invited me and my math teacher teammate to attend Sunday services at her church on the south side of Trenton. We accepted.
Ella’s church was small and humble, but it was filled with elegantly dressed men and women and their neatly attired and very well-behaved children. Everyone was very gracious toward us, and Ella went out of her way to introduce us to her pastor and several of the church elders. We quickly learned that Ella herself was, in fact, the Head Deaconess at her church.
A large gospel choir performed beautifully during the church service. I was so moved by their singing that I made a point of praising them effusively to Ella after the service. Ella encouraged me to attend her church again, which I did the following Sunday.
In the meantime, I told Ella about a recreation program for seniors that I was running as a volunteer at the County Home in East Trenton. In describing this program, I must have said something to Ella about how much the old people I worked with would enjoy hearing her gospel choir.
When I reported for my volunteer work at the County Home a few days later, two large yellow school buses were parked at the front entrance, and Ella and her entire church choir were waiting for me to introduce them to my supervisor so they could entertain the residents.
If you have ever been inside a county home for the aging, you realize what sad and lonely places they can be. The old people there are destitute and rarely visited by relatives or friends. And the attendants in such places are low-paid civil servants who too often are contemptuous of both their jobs and their clients.
Needless to say, Ella’s wonderful choir was like a sudden burst of sunshine in the lives of these people. Backs that had been bent for years suddenly straightened; faces that had been expressionless lighted up with smiles as Ella’s choir performed their hymns of faith and joy.
But it didn’t stop with the spirit-lifting concert. After the performance, each member of the choir — men, women and children — visited individually with the residents. And during the seniors’ quiet conversations with Ella and her fellow parishioners, I saw for the first time real tears in eyes that had only responded to me with hopeless gazes.
“How will I ever be able to thank you and your wonderful friends, Ella?” I asked her afterwards. “I wish I could at least help pay for the rental of your buses.”
Again, Ella waved me off. “Don’t you be worryin’ about that, Bruce,” she said with a warm smile. “We took up a collection. Do you think the old folks would like us to come back again?”
Of course they did.
Oh and, by the way — Ella did get her GED!

Bruce Robinson is a writer and former Benicia resident.

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