We’ve come a long way

Or have we? The sounds of discrimination echo 30 years later.

by Louise Hull   Ka-chink. That was the sound of the mailbox lid being dropped back into place one sunny South Texas day in 1969. I had walked out to the front porch to retrieve the mail, never guessing that 30-plus years later I would still remember that sound because of the profound changes that were about to take place in my life–and the profound lessons I was about to learn.

Greetings from the President of the United States of America. That was the sound of me reading aloud the draft notice for my 23-year-old husband to report for active duty in the army. Within six months, he had completed basic training and received an assignment to an infantry division. The next (and last assignment before Southeast Asia) was Noncom-missioned Officers’ School, Fort Polk, Louisiana.

And we’ll all be dead by the summer of ’71. That was the last line of a chant that I heard the soldiers marching to during training. I was pregnant with our first child and scared silly thinking of facing such an uncertain future. Given the circumstances, it seemed that I should try to find a place to live and accompany him to Louisiana.

No vacancy. That’s what property managers said when I called numerous apartment complexes. After several days, I found a furnished wood-frame house nestled beneath towering pine trees–the only stick-built house in a subdivision of mobile homes. We completed an application, signed the lease, and moved everything we owned from our Plymouth Valiant into this house. The prior tenant had been a slob. In two weeks, I had stripped and waxed the wood floors, detailed the old gas range, and sewn curtains for the living room and bedroom.

Tap, tap. That was the sound of the landlady knocking on the screened door. She told me that we needed to talk. She explained that she had been looking over our application and had noticed that the question concerning military rank said sergeant. "Is your husband really just a noncommissioned officer?" she asked. I nodded and she went on to explain that she was very sorry, but the owner of the properties in that subdivision only rented to commissioned officers. She informed me that we would have to move, but generously explained that we could have a week to find something else.

Move??? That was the sound coming from my mouth, incredulously questioning the first time I ever experienced the feeling of being judged based on unjust standards.

This is a true story. We found another place that day and moved, but I have never forgotten my personal lesson in Housing Discrimination 101. Isn’t it incredible that after all these years, I remember the sounds?

We have made great progress in our awareness of the unfairness of discrimination. Lengthy laws have been passed to punish individuals who violate the rights of others. Still, I know the sounds of discrimination have not been silenced. Listen to people around your office. What was that? An ethnic joke? A stereotypical comment? A whispered slang term? Or even just a lack of awareness of someone’s feelings brought forth by a statement like, "my (insert race) clients" or "our (insert faith) neighbors"?

Our fair-housing laws prohibit discrimination for reasons of color, national origin, race, religion, sex, handicap, or familial status. But until we, as REALTORS® and human beings, become blind to the differences that separate us from others, the seeds–the sounds–of discrimination still exist.

Louise Hull, CRB, CRS, GRI, is broker/owner of Cornerstone Properties in Victoria. She is a TREC commissioner and served as TAR chairman of the board in 2000. You can e-mail her at louise@louisehull.com.

Illustration © Artville.

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