Fairyland

Fairyland. I first heard of this magical place about six years ago, while serving at Broadway UMC in Waldo, which, believe it or not, was not really that very far from Fairyland. Sitting at Prospect Avenue and 75th, Fairyland Park, filled with rides and a swimming pool and lots of places to picnic, was open from 1923 until 1977, when a wind storm wrecked parts of the roller coasters and Worlds of Fun became too much competition. I heard of Fairyland from members of Broadway, near my age, who recounted stories about the school picnics, the 25 cents admission price, and the great times they had there with their families.

I drive past that corner often, since when I travel from the office I get off Bruce Watkins highway at 75th to tootle on over to Kansas City Academy to pick up Caleb. Since finding out about the park that used to be there, I never pass that corner without wanting to get out and root around to see if I could fine a ticket stub, or a ride token, or even just a penny with "1950" marked on it to help me imagine what it must have been like. There is still a large patch of green there and a not for profit organization that aids the blind has built a great looking facility there.

Fairyland. I had not thought, however, too terribly much about it in detail, just wistful imaginings of girls in pigtails holding their daddies hands, and the waft of cotton candy in the air.

After last night, though I will be thinking about Fairyland differently.

Cana is taking a twentieth century American history class this semester, one of three courses she has at Penn Valley Community College. Two of those three classes are taught by African Americans...her history class being one. Yesterday, the teacher, in her late fifties, talked personally about what it was like growing up in Kansas City. She talked about Fairyland. She told the class that when she was a little girl, the only time black folks could go to Fairyland was on "colored people's weekend" when they were invited to come to "test the rides." Her mother would not let her go on those weekends, not just because of the ominous nature of that description, but also because her mom said, "if we can't go when we want, we won't go at all."

I think of myself as anything but racist. I was taught by my parents not to be, even when there were those in our family whose jokes made me sick to my stomach and who thought they were mighty funny when they would start talking in dialect. My two colleagues in the district office are both black; good grief, I listen to the black gospel selections from my Ipod almost every day! I'm cool with all of this. Until I remember, I am a creation of white privilege. I see the world, especially American history, through those eyes. How many times have I offended friends by not remembering that and by assuming my view is their view too?

Fairyland Park did not desegregate until 1964, ten years after Brown vs. the Board of Education; a year after the March on Washington; the same year as the Civil Rights Act passed Congress, a year before the Voting Rights Act did. Kansas City could in no way be called "cutting edge" when it came to integration. There were protests for two full years before the privately-owned Fairyland was integrated, and then over protests by many white folks in the community. Over those two years there were many arrests of persons trying to buy tickets. Most of the objection was that there would be "mixed swimming" in the pool there.

Now, I will look at that green space at the corner of Prospect and 75th, surrounded by houses owned and lived in by African Americans, and I will not feel the same. I will still want to stop, but this time to not only remember the sounds of squealing teenagers making that last long loop on the Wildcat roller coaster, but I will also remember the determination of the black kids who for two years tried and tried and finally made it into the gates. I will continue to notice that there is still a "color line" at Troost Avenue, as I draw closer to my kids school and my old church, and I will remember that my children, blond at birth and light skinned still, have been children of privilege, attending a private school within the boundaries of one of the most challenged public school districts in the country. It is all a web intricate in history and held strong by prejudice. At least I can try my best to understand that my backward look at past events is skewed by my own privilege. And I will try to remember.