Race to the Finish
Our Village
has had an ongoing dialog recently about immigrants and race. This has stirred
up a lot of feelings for us all and brought up a bunch of memories I had
squashed down pretty far in the ol’ emotional “compactor”.
I was born
in Kansas City to a couple of white bread parents. My mother came from Ozark
white trash and my Dad from plains farm stock. Neither had ever seen much of
the world outside their stomping grounds and married right out of High School,
then had me. My Dad went on to finish college then on to grad school and took a
job with a major US Company that he held for over 40 years. His first posting
was in southern Texas and we moved there right after my brother was born, I was
3.
We moved
into a cheap apartment complex and all the neighborhood kids were Mexican, so I
learned Spanish before I had mastered English, kids can do that.
One of my
earliest memories of “race relations” was during a trip back to visit my
grandparents in KC. My brother was just learning to talk and walk so he must
have been 2 or 3. We were walking past a small group of Black Men playing cards
under the Awning of a “Corner Store” and my brother broke away and walked right
up to them and said “HI !!! BLACK FACES”!!!! I did not think anything of it because I had
seen black people before, but my mother was devastated !!! I still remember her
fear and gushing apologies. The men just laughed so hard they could barely
breathe and sluffed it off as “making their day”……………..I was not too sure about
that. I was 6.
Fast forward
a few years and my parents had divorced, we moved and soon were involved in a
horrific car accident. My Mom spent most of her days in bed, with prescription induced
lethargy. I had a new set of friends and on Sundays we came up with a pretty
cool way to keep ourselves occupied and fed by dressing up in our Sunday best,
slicking down our hair and visiting all the churches in the area, first on foot
and later on bikes. We’d quietly giggle and smirk as our teachers and local
shop owners would be touched on the forehead and faint or speak in tongues at
the Pentecostal and Baptist Churches. Afterward we’d get Koolaid and Cookies
and “mingle” with the other parishioners and kids from school. This went on for
months.
In the
school we attended there were NO people of color. Hispanics don’t count in
Texas as they were just “Mes-can” and regardless of their social standing they
were either Mes-can Doctors” or Mes-can garbage men. Their kids went to our
school and spoke Spanish to each other…………and me. My other friends were
terrified of them all and were sure some kind of Westside story stabbing would
take place if they even talked to them. I was warned of this constantly. I visited
their homes, hugged their Abuellas and learned to LOVE homemade tamales, LOVE
em !!!
During one of
these visits my amigo’s parents invited me to go to their church on Sunday as
they had heard I was a Spiritual Bedouin and felt the need to play Missionary. I
knew about Catholic Churches from my early days at the Apartment Complex and
begged off because “Those People” speak a freak language my young buddies told
me was older than Jesus. Their statues and gold also freaked me out and they had Nuns who would “smack” you with
rulers “for no reason” from behind their scary black and white penguin suits. “Um,
gracias no”…..I was terrified of Catholics.
One of my
buddies older brothers told us all one day about a Black Church across town
that had singing and dancing and best of all they had Fried Chicken and “fixins”
afterward. We were IN ! We got on our bikes early the next Sunday and rode all
over the place looking for THE Church. It was hotter ant anything in our Suits
and no one was giving up much to a “Gang” of white kids asking about THE
Church. We rode around and witnessed sights we never imagined in our lives.
Burnt out houses and cars. Trash and junk everywhere and BLACK PEOPLE
!!!............None of us had ever seen so many black people EVER.
We knew one
black person between us. She was the maid for the rich girl at the end of our block.
She was stern and NEVER – EVER let Becky
out of her sight. We all liked Becky, hated the maid. “Mrs. B”
As were
heading home we saw a few stragglers heading home down a side street with
colorful clothes on and fancy hats. BINGO we said to each other and peddled
toward the “saved ones” for a recon mission.
Sure enough
or should I say Sho-nuf, who would be walking behind the 1st group
but Mrs. B , Becky’s maid. “Crap”.
“Hey, what u
boys doin here?” she glared at us. “Come over here”.
We explained
that we were looking for her church because we heard it “was so good” and went
on and on with more lies………..She knew we were up to something and told us where
to be next Sunday.
We were
scared sh*& as the following Sunday approached. We talked ourselves in and
out of going a few dozen times and finally dared each other enough that all of
our mothers would die or be crippled if we were too wussy to go. The ride
seemed hotter than the last time and we made it there a bit early. We huddled
in our little group as family after family of laughing colorfully dressed happy
faced folks shook hands and greeted each other warmly and with tremendous enthusiasm.
Mrs. B spotted us and ushered us to a pew about mid-way. We received a few
glances but not any stares. We were terrified and stared straight ahead. All I
remember from that first time was a lot of singing, loud voices of “Amen” – “That’s
RIGHT” and more singing and standing up clapping too. Overall I just remember LOUD.
They were
not lying about the Fried Chicken. But it was an understatement. The food was
fantastic and the people SO friendly that I wondered why anyone would ever call
them the names I had heard my friends parents use all the time. My parents had
their faults but one thing they never used was “that word” or any disparaging word
toward any race that I can remember. In adulthood I remember my Dad making a
comment about an Indian (country) guy and he said he was angry because the took
all the scholarships when he was in college. Humm….interesting, file that away
for the archives.
Anyway, we
had a number of weeks of singing and eating bliss until one of the parents
found out what we were doing and in a rage got all the other parents together (and
called my Mom) to explain at the top of their lungs that “no kids of theirs are
going to hang around “monkey brained coons ” and that was the edited version. It was a
horrible demonstration of ignorance and it is like a cheap tattoo indelibly left
in my brain. I continued on for another week or two but then I was called a “N-
Lover” one too many times and quit going, cold turkey.
Sometime
later I ran into Mrs. B and Becky at the grocery store and immediately started
crying. I cried so hard and was so embarrassed
and ashamed that I had stopped seeing Mrs. B on Sundays. She hugged me and
comforted me and “dear chyled” me until I stopped and just said “I know”. Becky
was baffled. I was 9 or 10 and those were the best hugs I had EVER had.
Fast forward
a bit more and we move to Shreveport, LA where I hear all the tales of the KKK
from my friends there and SEE actual Slave Plantations and learn about slavery
in school. Then on to New Orleans where The MAN finally decides to experiment
with integration via bussing white kids to an all black neighborhood school
until a new school could be built. This was the late 60’s and the Black
Panthers were on TV every night. Fires burned throughout the country. One funny thing about this move is that I
questioned a big gold dome I saw downtown as we entered the city for the 1st
time. “Oh, that is a synagogue my step-dad said, “that is where Jews go to pray”
……..”Jews are still around I asked ???” – I thought they all died with Jesus”…………..Yes,
a very sheltered life up until that point.
So, they
shipped busses of us into the inferno. Bricks through bus window and glass into
my ear. Fights on the campus and football field were constants. I happened to
be in the marching band and on more than one occasion used my drumsticks and
size to keep groping angry black hands off female band members and to defend
myself from “gangs” of very angry black folk who were angry just because I was
white and in their neighborhood. Most of my days at Hellen Cox were in abject
terror, in a quest for daily survival.
Another move
and my 1st real job was “picking up sticks” on a golf course in
Naples, FL. Myself and 7 black guys. I was 13 and also rode my bike to that
job. We worked from 6am to 4pm in the scorching sun loading up sticks and logs
from a swamp that had just been drained. It was terribly hot and my crew
members skin burnt SO bad and SO fast. After day 3 were all naked in the
drainage ponds at every chance we could to cool off. Mosquitoes, Water
Moccasins and all we did not give a hoot, it was camaraderie at it’s best and
those relationships lasted for another 10 years until I moved north.
I thought I
knew about bigotry, prejudice and hate as a southern boy until I moved to New
England later in life. My 1st office was on Main Street in the
Italian Section of Town. After a couple of years there I was asked to lead a
Community Development Organization to create a Master Plan for the City and
that is when I learned about HATE. Generations of HATE from White Italian
Immigrants.
It seems
that if you are an Neoploitainaise you hate Abrutaise and Sicialianos hate
Minaniase more than Mulaniane from Africa……….It was the worst job I ever had
for FREE. Nothing could ever get done for the 15 years I was in that position.
NOTHING. It was there too that I learned
“power-less-ness. Thank goodness.
It felt good to finally bring up some of this
stuff and let it fly away. It was also nice to remember Mrs. B. I still think
of her often and certainly every time I hear the Blind Boys of Alabama. I also continue
to surprise myself by remembering all “the words” both in and out of the songs.
