Let’s spell it out a little then.
We could start the story further back, but let’s just start with my living family. My grandpa grew up poor on a farm. He went to college on the GI bill. He got a job at an oil refinery with no black employees. My grandmother, who got a great public school education, also worked part time. Together, they saved up money, and with the help of a VA loan, bought a nice house. That home was their principal asset, and it appreciated significantly over the decades they owned it while raising my mother and her siblings. They sold the home when the kids moved out, reaping a huge profit. They were able to help my Mom when she got divorced shortly into her marriage (in no small part over money troubles), so that we weren’t thrown into poverty. My Mom eked out a lower middle class lifestyle in a safe mostly white neighborhood where the city repaired the roads and no one went to jail for doing (or dealing) the drugs we did as teenagers.
Now consider the story of the kind of person I’m saying I might owe a moral obligation.
The grandparents of “Nathan” were refugees from terrorism and oppression in the Second Great Migration. His grandpa also served in WWII, but like most of his cohort could not benefit from the GI bill. Indeed, the New and Fair Deals would not have existed if the federal government had insisted that they be designed to also benefit people like Nathan’s grandparents. They arrived in a new city with no family network and no wealth, having either left it behind or spent it to get there. They worked hard to make a better life for their kids.
But they weren’t able to buy their way into the white suburbs like my grandpa did. Government policy meant they couldn’t get credit. And they also faced racial covenants and other race-based obstacles. Maybe they did buy a home in the city, with cash, but their neighborhood declined as the tax base dropped off. Or when a sewage processing plant was built there. Or any of a dozen other causes of urban decline in areas fled by white people with wealth. They weren’t able to pass any wealth to their kids, or cover for any major bumps in the road that their kids experienced. Nathan had an even harder time escaping their crumbling neighborhood even as the formal limits on that escape also crumbled.
Nathan’s kids now go to a school that has roughly the same demographics and is in roughly the same condition as the all-black school that it was before 1955. If you like, you can posit that many of the kids go to that school not because they share Nathan’s family story, but because their parents (or parent) made a lot of mistakes.
Now suppose I live in that same urban school district. If all the comfortable, highly-educated parents like me, of all races, move to the suburbs (or even just send our kids to private schools), then that school’s prospects of getting better are slim. Among other things, our tax money follows us. The more of us who stay, the higher the chances of Nathan’s kids getting a fair shot of escaping from poverty.
Am I morally permitted to just ignore the circumstances that led to this situation when making the choice to flee to the school districts in the suburbs? Am I free to ignore the way my choice, or my part of the collective choice, affects the neighborhood school?
I don’t mean those questions rhetorically. I don’t have the answers. These aren’t the kind of moral questions our chimpanzee brains were made to answer, I suspect. But to my way of thinking, there is something wrong with ignoring that history and those facts. Maybe it isn’t enough on its own to compel my decision. But it would be wrong to ignore entirely the substantial moral component–which is the point I’m trying to make on this long tangent.