The Only One In The Room: A Lifetime of Observations on Race

By Milton Thompson

The Only One in the Room is a serious treatment on the subject of race in America, exploring why the problems persist, and what Christ-followers must do to help our nation heal.
Throughout his life, especially while working as a high-profile professional in the Midwest, author Milton Thompson was often the only African American in his circles. A minister and educator, he uses the backdrop of his personal journey to skillfully and knowledgeably assess where we’ve been as a nation, and where we are now.
 
The Only One in the Room crosses several literary genres, and offers readers ~

• The moving story of a remarkable African American family
• Provocative social and political commentary
• An intimate look at an enduring love story
• Biblical hope and inspiration  

 
Thompson says he’s become more reflective about race as he’s gotten older. He possesses a seasoned, gracious, and godly perspective, which is just what we need right now.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Creation House
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781629985411

Book preview

America.

Chapter 1

MY CONSTANT COMPANION

STEALTHILY ENTERING AN elementary classroom, I tiptoe past the artwork on the wall and steady myself on a little chair to watch the learning that’s taking place. I figure if I crouch down and slouch my shoulders nobody will notice me, but the boys and girls stare at me, their faces showing surprise at the presence of a stranger. What am I thinking? I’m six feet four inches tall and two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

And I’m also black.

When I first became superintendent of schools in this mostly white community I thought I could visit the classrooms without distracting from the learning environment. But few of the children had interacted with black people on a regular basis, so I must have been in denial to think I could just sneak in unnoticed.

On my first visit to the lunchroom of one of our elementary schools I went from table to table saying hello to the children and teachers. As I approached one table, a young man looked up at me and his eyes lit up; he could barely contain his excitement.

"I know who you are!" he beamed.

You do? I asked, a little incredulous.

You’re the president! he declared. I didn’t know what to do, but I later told the staff that I’d apparently received a promotion!

A couple weeks later when I attended a family fun night at the middle school a student approached me declaring that I looked just like Morgan Freeman. Though I like Morgan Freeman, I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t been mistaken for Denzel Washington.

The innocence of children is very refreshing in these humorous incidents, and I chalk it up to their attempt to fit someone new and different into a frame of reference they can understand. For them, it was the world of celebrity or entertainment. Outside of that, along with a large number of Americans, they’ve had little personal experience with black people.

I was born on May 26, 1953, in Racine, Wisconsin. I am on the back nine of my life, a fact that until recently I was not ready to admit. I find that as I’ve gotten older I’ve become more race conscious, and I’m more attuned to feelings of isolation in a profession where I’ve been the only black male in multiple situations.

As an educator I’ve worked up the professional ranks from advisory roles to superintendent of schools. The demographics have varied widely, but at this particular post I was one of only a handful of black people in the immediate area. I lived in an apartment in the town, I shopped at the local grocery store, and I ate in the local restaurants. I was almost always the only black person there, and although I tried not to be I was always conscious of standing out, of being different. Occasionally I would go shopping in a more diverse city nearby just to see people who looked more like me. It helped me let my guard down and just relax a bit more.

It was a solitary existence, compounded by the fact that my wonderful wife, Margaret (Peggy), stayed behind in our hometown about one hundred and seventy miles away, where we still owned a home, because she is not yet retired. Peggy is a schoolteacher.

And she’s white.

During that time we saw each other on alternate weekends. Sometimes on Mondays my bags were packed in anticipation of going home to be with her on Fridays. We’ve been married for forty years, and we have four grown sons: Nathanael, Matthew, Thomas, and Daniel. When we all gather together for Christmas or for a few days in the summer, the conversations around our table are never dull.

Peggy and I met in our parents’ church. With a German-American background, she is a daughter of the American Revolution, except her family fought on the wrong side in the war! Her ancestor, Georg Bingle, fought in the Revolutionary War but as a Hessian soldier. He was a paid mercenary for King George III of England. After the war he returned to Germany and told such wonderful stories about America that his three sons immigrated here. I’m so glad he did, otherwise I would never have met my soul mate. She will follow me anywhere, as long as I am also following the Lord; she has proven this over the years. There were difficult times when I took jobs away from home as a superintendent, but she’s been steadfast, even in situations where other whites must have wondered why she married a black man. This was really evident in the seventies when we got married, but it rears its head from time to time even now.

An introvert in most social situations, Peggy summons the extroverted side of her personality at work. When she’s with her students she’s compassionate and in charge. And when she begins to talk about the things of God, it’s like a switch is flipped, and her excitement for the Lord Jesus is unleashed.

As an educator and former pastor, I like people, but as superintendent of schools it would have been nice to have the occasional luxury of camouflaging myself when I went out in the town because my role required me to make the occasional tough or controversial decisions. When I was new to town and first started attending district events everyone noticed I was there, but most people didn’t seem aware that I was feeling like an outsider. I would enter the football stadium or the basketball gymnasium and look around for someone I knew, someone who could help me feel connected.

Tom was that guy. At our first home game I walked into the football stadium, and since I had only been on the job for about a month I hardly knew anyone. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, so I sat at the far end of the bleachers. At the next game I came in and decided to just sit there and watch the game, even if I was alone the whole evening. But Tom, a local chiropractor whom I had never met, walked over and invited me to sit with his family. I was glad to join them, and for the rest of the season I would enter the stadium looking for Tom. After football season, when I attended a few basketball games and wrestling matches, again I would walk into the gym hoping someone—maybe a staff member—might notice that I was alone. Usually it was Tom who invited me to sit with him. Because he used to live in Atlanta, Georgia, Tom was more comfortable with diversity and, frankly, more attentive to it.

Some time later, I had to make a difficult educational decision that affected Tom’s daughter and her basketball team. My new friend was among a large group of people who showed up at the school board meeting to protest the decision. I had previously arranged to go to a game later that week with Tom and his family, but after the tense meeting I pulled him aside for a moment.

Tom, I said, I’m not going to make it to the game this week. He didn’t seem to know what to say. I’m willing to take responsibility for decisions that I made, I told him, but I’m not a masochist who likes to walk into a place where people might be potentially hostile. I felt isolated enough, and that type of situation would just feed the race-consciousness I was fighting with, even though I knew it wasn’t racially