I found it among the memorabilia my parents left in a file folder.

The Englewood Christian School Flash was the last newsletter prepared for the constituents of the school acknowledging that the school had been sold to the Chicago Public Schools, and that Englewood Christian would now affiliate with a Christian school in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. This was part of the pattern of White flight among Reformed Christians—and other faith groups—common to many urban centers in the midwestern United States.

The Flash was not my first exposure to the history of that time. In a course on Christian Reformed Church History at Calvin Theological Seminary, I, along with seminarian Ron Nydam, co-authored a paper on the White flight move of the churches and schools of Englewood and Roseland, another nearby community populated by Reformed Christians. Reading the school board and church council minutes of those years was a revelation for any number of reasons. Sadly, many of my boyhood memories of men I considered to be pillars of the faith crumbled before my eyes, based on decisions made and the stated, often racist, comments made in support of the decisions. 

Years later, while researching again in preparation for my novel, Green Street in Black and White, I found the Flash. And it rocked my world.

As the farewell edition, it was printed as a keepsake, celebrating seventeen years of its publication and sixty years of the school’s existence. It had the typical features of newsletters of the era. Notes from the editor and the principal. Pictures of the graduating class with descriptions of their character in italics. Graduates’ last will and testaments. Picture of the basketball team—only boys, of course, and other student organizations.

And the honor roll, with my sister there in the third row. I must have been sick that day.

But it was the “Roving Reporter” feature that first gave me pause. Two students who were interviewed had this to say when asked about the school closing and merging with a suburban school:

I would rather stay here if there were no Negroes. Our friends are going too. I don’t like going on the bus. I don’t like big classes. And

I’d like to stay in Englewood if there were no colored persons. I don’t like the idea of a big school. I wish all the teachers would stay.

As James Baldwin said, “Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them.”

Not only were the student comments reflective of what they’d heard at home, they were printed in black and white for posterity, apparently endorsed by the newsletter editor.

If this were not enough to make me wonder, I read the following paragraph written by the Board President, explaining the reason for the school sale and closing:

Now our enrollment is decreasing rather rapidly, so that for fall we considered it unfeasible to continue as we have. When the Chicago Board of Education offered us $110,000 for our school, we accepted. Our school will be used to educate children of our neighborhood to whom God has given a different color of skin. We pray that in the future God may provide a way so that we may be able to witness to these people the wonderful grace of God as revealed in Christ. In the meantime, let us harbor no bitterness or resentment. If we do, we can no longer sing, ‘Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight,’ a song which has echoed often from the halls of our classrooms.

And there it was, on full, unabashed display. Enrollment was declining because of white flight. So, I wondered, was the move from Englewood led by institutions and then the community followed, or did the constituents lead the way and the churches and schools followed? Or was it a hybrid of sorts?

But there is also this, much more revealing. The assumption was that the Black families moving into Englewood needed the Gospel, couldn’t possibly be Christian, and the move of the school and its constituents is an opportunity for later evangelistic work. 

Never was a thought given to the fact that Black students could fill those emptying seats and the school could stay to serve a new population. It would take some effort for Blacks and Whites to learn to live and learn together, but it was not even a consideration, even if they were encouraged to “harbor no bitterness or resentment.” Precious within God’s sight, but not enough for the readers of the Flash or leaders of the institutions making the decisions.

Finally, my eyes drifted to the photo at the top of the page containing the telltale quote. The all-male Board, dressed in suits and sports coats, white shirts and ties, smiling, the principal and officers seated in the front row. And there he was, my father, an officer of the Board.

One of the deepest regrets of my life is that we never had a conversation about those years or those decisions. When we moved from Englewood my sister and I were not part of the family discussion or decision. We, like so many kids at that time, were informed but not engaged. I’m certain that our parents’ motives, among other things, had to do with personal safety. I had been beaten on the street near our house, my father was robbed as he got off the CTA bus, and we had a brick thrown through our bungalow front window, knocking over our Christmas tree.

I don’t know if my parents were racists. I know my own tendencies toward a racist heart and when I’ve acted out of racist thoughts. My parents may have participated in some sense in racist decisions and actions during this period of White flight. I don’t know, for example, how my Dad voted on the decision to sell the school. I do know their conversations and actions later in life which persuade me that they at least struggled with the decision to move. But when I became a parent, I asked myself if I would have made different decisions and taken different actions than those my parents took in moving us to the suburbs.

And my answer is “Probably not.” Unless, of course, the church provided leadership and became a front porch for the changing community, bringing people together for conversations and commitments. Unless my family sensed we were not alone in our decision. Unless real estate practices were changed and laws passed against discriminatory lending practices and restrictive covenants no longer existed, victimizing and preventing Black ownership of property. Unless fear—of financial loss, of harm, of the threat of losing friendships and community—was somehow overcome and replaced by learning to love our neighbors in active, visible ways.

I’m grateful that today, even in Chicago and surrounding suburbs, you can find neighborhoods and schools that are a delightful mix of races and ethnicities, faiths, and communities, learning to live together and thrive. You can find churches that act like front porches for the community. And you will find exemplary Christian and public schools.

It’s been a slow, glacial change in attitudes and hearts, in legislation and real estate practices. Racism still exists in policies, legislation, and assumptions, and the hearts of many. But I’ve never been more hopeful, and grateful for Christians of all races and ethnicities who are leading the way

I wish my parents would have lived to see this day.