VALPARAISO | Valerie Jensen and her two sons moved to Northwest Indiana's "Vale of Paradise" with high hopes.

Last month they packed it in and left.

Their hopes for Valparaiso three years ago included living in a much smaller city than the St. Paul, Minn., they left behind. The prospect of the different, exotic world of a mostly-white community excited them.

A lawyer and associate dean at a St. Paul law college, Jensen had been recruited to direct career planning at the Valparaiso University School of Law.

Parker, entering eighth grade, and Connor, entering third, were looking forward to sports and other small-town opportunities.

But the N-word and other slurs intruded too often. And the family just got too worn down by the perceived indifference of the schools and the community.

Jensen, 42, is black. Her sons' father, from whom she is divorced, is white. From their appearance, the boys have faced labeling as Hispanic and Arabic. And not always in an innocent way.

Valparaiso is "a community that hasn't been very accepting of who they are," Jensen said. "Mexican" as a slur, she said, is tossed around in Valparaiso schools with both the same carelessness and the same studied intent as the N-word. "This isn't a healthy place for them," she said as she took care of last-minute details before their return to Minnesota.

Slurs at soccer

On Connor's first day at elementary school, Jensen drove him to school and was taken aback by the Confederate flag on another car. It was the first of many they were to encounter across Valparaiso. People don't understand how hurtful that symbol is for some, Jensen said.

Then came the casual racial epithets.

In their first spring, Parker, an avid soccer player, joined a city league team to make friends and to belong to something, his mother said. The first practice was not welcoming -- no one spoke to him -- but he was OK with that.

But after a later practice he told his mother he wasn't going back. A couple other kids on the team started talking about Nazis and swastikas and one said he didn't like "spics, niggers or Jews." Parker decided he just didn't want to be on a team with kids like that. It was not an easy decision for Parker, who had played since he was 5, including competitively.

That fall, when Parker started at Valparaiso High School, he felt more comfortable than he had at his middle school because of a more diverse student population.

But at the first swim class, in Jensen's recounting, things changed.

High school lows

-- You should be a good swimmer, a boy by the pool said to Parker.

-- What?

-- You had to swim here from Mexico, didn't you? Aren't you a wetback?

-- I'm not Mexican, Parker said.

-- Oh, are you a nigger then?

A few days later, a girl in the class also used the N-word within his hearing.

Despite her son's objections, Jensen went to school administrators. They were shocked, she said, but their response was to ask Parker to name the students for punishment. He wouldn't. Concerned about retaliation, he didn't want to draw any further attention to himself.

The administrators told Jensen the school had an anti-bullying program, but to her mind, racist slurs are a whole other category.

The response confused and concerned Jensen. She'd come from a place where there would have been talks with students and teachers -- perhaps even a community meeting -- about the general problem pointed up by the slurs.

At the least, she asked the school to send out a letter to school families. And Jensen, who had been in charge of multicultural affairs at her previous law school, offered to present diversity training.

Nothing doing.

She was left with a feeling of being unable to change anything. It was like the drug problem her son saw at Valpo High, Jensen said. No one talks about it.

Feeling unwelcome

Other slights accumulated.

There were more racial epithets on the bus.

Connor was called "Mexican" at his elementary school and told his mother his fear of a cross burning in their yard.

Jensen's African-American law students told her of being the object of racial taunting on city streets.

When Jensen met with teachers, their first question often seemed to be if her boys faced a troubled family life or drug problems at home.

Parker was allowed to attend Martin Luther King Day events at Valparaiso University because it had always been an important day for the family but was treated as a "non-holiday" at VHS, Jensen said. But he had to show proof he had actually gone.

Eventually Parker felt intimidated in the classroom, became sullen and angry and just wanted to keep a low profile, Jensen said. If she had stayed in Valparaiso, she would have moved him to a different school.

Differing school views

According to state data, Valparaiso High School is 90 percent white and 4 percent Hispanic, with black, Asian and multiracial students accounting for 2 percent each.

Principal Patrick Weil recalled one meeting with Jensen early in Parker's time there. He said his perception was that she was satisfied with their discussion.

"We have a positive climate in this building," Weil said. "I think our students are happy here."

When there are incidents of harassment, whether racial, sexual or relational, they are addressed immediately, he said. Individual perpetrators are confronted and broader issues are addressed in specific curricula and in the Creating a Safe School mentoring program.

"We don't turn our head (from) it," he said.

Leaving with sad heart

"We came with a very open mind, wanting to make a life here," Valerie Jensen said. "It's been one painful thing after another."

Now she'd probably never live in a mostly white community or a small town again, she said. For her sons' well-being, she feels their place is in a diverse city.

Positive change can happen in Valparaiso, Jensen said, but not without recognition and acknowledgement of a problem, which she sees so little of. She tried to stir awareness, but ended up feeling invisible.

At the high school, a compounding problem is the lack of teachers of color, Jensen said. But after her experience, she'd be hard pressed to recommend the school as a place to work.

Jensen said she sees concerned individuals, but not a community that says minorities should feel comfortable and that takes their concerns seriously.

"I feel sad in my heart," she said, "for the young people and families who won't get to meet my kids, who are open to and respectful of other people."

But for her sons, she didn't want to stay longer in a place where they never really felt they belonged.

"I don't want my kids to be angry," she said. "I don't want them not to like people."

AUDIO

Click here to listen to Valerie Jensen talk about her reasons for leaving Valparaiso in an interview on the WVLP "Conversations" radio show.