Rachelle Zola walks 17 to 24 kilometers every day, pushing a small handcart with a sign that reads, “ASK ME WHY I WALK 1,200 kilometers?”

The 76-year-old woman is walking from Chicago, Illinois to Montgomery, Alabama to raise awareness about racial injustice in America. She is doing this not only by walking, but also by performing her one-woman play, “Late: A Love Story.” In the show, Zola shares her journey of learning about racial inequality and also portrays the experience of racism by sharing her friends’ stories. She will perform the play on Sunday, August 25, at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Birmingham.

WBHM’s Sara Güven spoke to Zola about her journey and her performance as she made her way through Birmingham.

The following conversation has been edited and shortened for clarity.

What made you decide to take on this project? What inspired you?

I’m getting callings. I was getting sort of marching orders, I don’t know, from the universe saying you’re going to Chicago and you’re going to get involved in the black and brown community. It was shocking. I’d never been to Chicago. I didn’t know anyone in Chicago, but I took it very seriously and went. And so I got there on day one, August of 2019, and from day one, I met the people in the black community and they told me where to go. They were wondering and asking me, “Who are you? Why is this 71-year-old white woman here? And what do you want to do?” And I didn’t even have an answer. I didn’t even know. But I kept showing up. And then I knew because they started sharing their life experiences.

I say it in my piece: it’s a tribute to the people that so many people deem invisible, reject, or hate because of the color of their skin. And it’s painful to say, and I say it every time, I never thought about their lives. I didn’t think about the depth of trauma and suffering that they had to endure every day. And so for me, as a white man who is now in his 70s, to learn about this so late, knowing that I was never asked to accept that I live in a racist country, is shocking. So they share these stories and I thought: I know what to do.

Why do you think you were never taught or thought about racism? Do you think it was because of your upbringing?

I get asked that a lot. I’m 76. I was born in Brooklyn, New York. When I was nine, my parents moved to Long Island, and that’s where I lived. And it was an all-white community. I mean, when I look back, there were communities that were mostly black, but I never met one. There wasn’t a single white-black family where I lived. It’s crazy. People say to me, “Did you all just sit around and say you hated us?” I say, “We never talked about you. That wasn’t even on my radar.”

What it all boils down to is that no one challenged me. I didn’t even know there were questions I could ask. I didn’t even know I was supposed to ask myself questions. And yes, it confuses me. I wonder how this could have happened.

Was there a specific event in our country that changed your mind and made you think about it, or was it simply your calling, as you said?

No, it really was. I was supposed to come to Chicago. You know, people ask me, “What is this thing you’re doing now?” I have a little brother. He’s six years younger than me and he has cognitive disabilities. So I’ve always been an advocate. It’s like you don’t mess with your little brother. So I already have that, part of me. And it wasn’t just Michael. It could be anyone. If I saw something, it was like, “Hey, you. Don’t treat that person like that.” I looked at Michael and said, “Hey, uh, uh, you can’t do anything to him.” So that same principle that governs my life really became, “No, you don’t mess with my black brothers and sisters.” But that didn’t happen until I moved to Chicago. I had to move to Chicago to learn about my own country.

Can you describe the show and I was wondering if you would be willing to perform part of it?

It’s two acts. In the first act, I talk more about my life, my experiences, how I got here. The second part is mostly about my friends. I invited ten of my friends, three white, seven black. I called them and said, “I’m going to present this to the world. You just share what you want to share. And I’ll edit it and make a piece around you.”

There’s a scene where I call (a woman) looking for a roommate. She answers the phone and says, “Hello, my name is Joyce and I’m black.” I said, “Hello, my name is Rachelle and I’m white.”

She said the reason is because her name is Joyce and a lot of people associate that with a white name. And she sounds like a white person. So (potential renters) were falling over each other, calling her and saying we’ll give you the money now. She said no, take your time, I want you to look at the apartment. I want you to get to know me.

So she comes down from the apartment complex and lets people in. The front of her entryway is all glass. They see her, she’s black, and they turn away.

She said, “You know what? I can handle it at work, but not at home.” So she said, “Hello, I’m Joyce and I’m black.”

I wanted to ask you about the hiking part of your project. What did you expect from this trip? And what was the reality like, especially hiking and doing this project in the deep south?

I came to the South and I thought I was going to hear, “No, absolutely not, because we don’t want them here.” I didn’t hear that. I didn’t hear that, and I honestly thought I would.

I think the biggest surprise for me is the kindness along the way. The people who want to be a part of what I’m doing in whatever way they can: giving me a ride, giving me a meal, just talking to me, recording one of their stories, coming to the show.

What was it about walking that inspired you to use it as a tool to fight racism and racial discrimination?

I like to walk, and I’m surprised at how encouraging it feels to people when they hear that I walk. This idea that I’m willing to use the time when I’m not looking at it to be just as encouraging as other people who are looking at it is that I’m willing to use the time when I’m not looking at it to be just as encouraging as other people who are looking at it.

It really says, thank you for taking the time to go. Thank you for taking the time to meet people along the way. Thank you for everything that this means. I’m at a loss for words because I’m really surprised by the impact it has when someone hears that I’m going. It’s like you’re going. You’re willing to do this. You’re willing to get tired. You’re willing to just keep talking to people. You’re willing to put that white body out there for people to see.

I can’t tell you how many times people start a conversation and say, “We should just love each other.” And that seems to come from the power of walking and seeing. And just standing there and just laughing or crying, both, all within a matter of minutes. And we just met.

Walking allows for that vulnerability. I mean, I’m just hanging out there by myself, right? I’m walking down streets where I don’t know anyone. It’s like, “What are you doing here?” It gives me permission again to be vulnerable and share my truths.

I wanted to ask you: How would you respond to people who hear about your work and react like, “Oh, that’s just another white person making this big societal issue their own, something they’ve never personally experienced”?

In fact, I have never experienced resistance in this way. I had no agenda. I had no money. I had brought nothing with me except that I was there. I think that’s why, I know, I don’t experience resistance. Because I didn’t come to change anything.

You know, the white people who do something, they come with their money, they come with their ideas, they say, “Oh, we’re going to do this.” And then it doesn’t work out the way they think. And then they blame the black community. But they had their own agenda. And I think that’s a very big difference. I didn’t have an agenda. I just came because I was supposed to and because I was supposed to show up, and that’s what I did every day. So that’s what I told people.