Almost in a bar fight/Racism......Follow up.

[Myrtle]

I found FishwhenIcan's post and the whole string worthy of a follow-up, but I didn't want to hijack it, so I decided to start another to share one of my experiences surround Racism.

Back in November of '06, I made a post titled...."The "N" word and me.

I've searched for it in the archives, and cannot find it,however I save some of my posts in Word, so I would like to share it with fellow Loungers.

I believe that I posted it in the Politics thread as a response to the George Allen 'macaca' brouhaha.

In any case, it generated a number of responses, and two more follow up posts on my part.

I will below re-post (in it's entirety) the first post, and should some loungers want, I can also re-post the 2nd & 3rd posts.

Here it is.....originally posted some time in Nov of 06.


The ‘N’ word & me........Have you got a story to tell?

There has been somewhat of a furor lately surrounding George Allen and his use of the ‘n’ word in his past, and more recently the video of him using the racial slur macaca.

The whole situation has prompted me to relive, again, my first personal acquaintance with the ‘n’ word. It goes something like this.............

It was the summer of 1959, and the Kennedy/Nixon race was heating up. My family had just moved out of the inner city to the outlying suburbs. I was 12 years old, used to the hard concrete and harder neighborhoods of city living. It was a change in existence that I had only read about. I spent that first summer exploring, for the first time in my life, the local woods and streams........ learning how to fish.......making tree forts with my new friends, and above all, playing baseball.

Back in those days, we played ball every day. There would always be a group of enough of us to sort of magically show up by cosmic osmosis at the local farm field. It would be wooden bats (if we were lucky, we’d have more than one) and once they broke, we’d wrap them in electricians tape (the ‘old’ type of tape, of the sticky asphalt composition) and continue to use them until they literally fell apart. We’d have a ball that somewhat resembled a real baseball: more often than not, the ball was wrapped in the same tape that wrapped the bat. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not whining about it, and we never did. That was just the way it was, and anyhow, what mattered more was the game.

That year, the field where we most often gathered was at the junction of the joining of three towns. Not only did we get to have the kids from our own neighborhood, but after a while, some of the kids from the other two towns would show up, and by geezez, we’d actually get to have a full 9 man-a-side, two team game.

Life was good.

Of course....we were kids. We didn’t know it, though. Back then the world was a different place. Those who read this and grew up during those times well know of what I speak. Even at that young age, many of us worked......we did our family chores unflinchingly.....we toed the line, or else. We were held responsible and accountable for our own actions, and there was generally hell to pay when we didn’t hold up our end of the bargain.

So, we were kids, but most of us had a component of our lives that was very un-kidlike by today’s standards.

Our game at the field was a regular thing, and as we all got to know each other better, the games would get better. We’d ‘buck-up’, choose sides and play until it was time to go home. As kids (we were all between 8 -13), we’d of course, have the typical ‘kid disagreements’. Most of the time they were settled with words.....occasionally rising to the threat of physical combat: rarely ever getting there.

A lot of this behavior was new to me. I grew up in a tough neighborhood, and by necessity, learned well how to defend myself. I would not be exaggerating to tell you that from the time I was 6 until I was 12 and moved out of the city, I had 2 or 3 fistfights a week. That’s just the way it was......whether you were sticking up for your little brother, defending your lunch money from the organized group of thugs that tried to steal it each day at school, or defending your honor, real or imaginary.

City kids grew up with an ‘in your face’ attitude. It took me a while to adjust to this new world where you didn’t have to watch your back all of the time. I was the proverbial stranger in a strange land, and had to learn to adapt to a new way of living.

I digress........We were mostly white kids. There were two black kids that started coming to our games; Luther and his little brother, whose name I can no longer recall. Luther was about my age, and his little brother was the same age as mine.....3 years younger.

He was a good ballplayer, and I grew to like him as a person as we got to know one another. We were two of the better ballplayers, and as such would often captain opposing teams.

Time to cut to a different scene for a bit........

Amongst the adult males in my new neighborhood, there was a traveling pinochle game. Every week it would be played at a different player’s home. On the nights where it was played at my home, I was deemed ‘old enough’ by the men to sit and take in the game. It was quite a privilege for a young lad, so I sat there, taking it all in......not speaking unless spoken to.

These were hard-working men: ironworkers, bricklayers, electricians, plasterers, carpenters......no genteel souls here! They were known to tip a beer bottle now and then, and some of the language and conversation was quite salty and on the edge. Of course, I was thrilled beyond words to be able to partake of the ‘adultness’ of it all, if only as an observer.

As I said early on, the presidential race was heating up.....JFK vs. Richard Nixon. The sides were sharply divided. We also had been exposed to this little thing called the Civil Rights Movement for the past few years, and it was a time of the beginning of a great societal upheaval for those who experienced it.

JFK was a strong supporter of civil rights, and that was a substantial part of his platform. On this one particular night, after a few beers, the topic around the pinochle table wended its’ way to the upcoming presidential election. Emotions rose and words got heated, as they often did. No big deal in my eyes.....that’s the way it was when these guys had a few beers and while playing the game discussed whatever it was that was the topic of the day.

My new best friend was also my next door neighbor. His dad was also my fathers new best friend. He was an ironworker, and tough as a 16 penny nail. He could work any two men into the ground, and as such was greatly admired by all. He was very funny and had a laugh and a smile that was infectious. He was also my Little League coach. We looked up to him.

In the heat of the argument as to who was going to win the presidency, he suddenly blurted out...... “Kennedy will never win, he’s a [censored] lover, and the country will never elect him”.

It’s not as if I had never heard the word, so it really didn’t shock me. I really didn’t think all that much about it at the time. Much of this was new to me; I was a boy, trying to be a man and trying to fit into a world that was full of surprises. I know that now; I didn’t know that then.

This comment came out of the mouth of a man I looked up to. He wasn’t, to the best of my knowledge, a ‘racist’, but.........back to the ball field.

On this particular day, during one of our many games, the subject turned to the JFK/Nixon debates that were being televised. Even though we were young, most of us had watched them. It was kind of hard not to, because this was before the days of even UHF broadcast channels (Channels 1-13 were all that was on the TV dial), and there were a whopping 3 actual channels that we got to choose from.....ABC, NBC & CBS. Since they all simultaneously broadcast the debates, guess what we all watched?!

So there we all were, in our 13 year old intellectual magnificence, debating the finer points of the virtues and vices of both candidates while playing baseball.

Well, I sure had a serious point to make, and before I knew it out of my mouth came.........

“JFK will never win.....he’s a [censored] lover”.

All this, of course within 5 feet of Luther. Remember him? My new friend.....the kid I really liked who also happened to be black.

To this day, and I’m now 59, I can remember both the look on his face, and the agonizing awareness on my part of what I had just blurted out.

He looked as if he had just been stabbed in the heart. I knew that it was me who had wielded the knife, all in one incredible flash of both awareness and shame on my part.

I can’t remember what I mumbled to try to atone for what I had just said. Whatever it was, of course it wasn’t enough.

The game broke up: we all went home. I felt awful. I told no one else about it.

The next day, back at the field......Luther and his brother were nowhere to be found. Nor were they there the day after.......or ever again.

Time goes on.....we all grow up. We forget much of what we’ve experienced; most of it being relegated to the purgatory of our subconscious.

Not that day......not what I said.......not for me.

I’ve often wondered what happened to them after that day.

What did they do when they went home after hearing me, their supposed friend, say that?

What did or could their parents say to them?

Was there any consolation that their folks could offer that could ease their pain?

They were in a different town; a different school system. I never saw them again after that day.

On that day, at that time, I was a racist. I hurt two souls who did nothing wrong other than existing.
There is no apology that will suffice. There is nothing that I can say or do that will erase it.

I said it.....I did it.....I own it.....I will never let myself forget it.

Nine years later, I’m in the Navy in Vietnam. One day we get the news over AFVN (military radio broadcast) that Martin Luther King had just been assassinated. Many were stunned; some were not.

Some were actually celebrating his death.

For those of you who might not be aware of the Vietnamese War, there was a great undertone of rampant racism in the military at that time. It simmered under the surface; always threatening to explode, and it did many times. The military kept a lid on the incidents most of the time, but believe me, it was not a proud part of our country’s military heritage.

The announcement of MLK’s death brought back my memories of my day as a racist. I became very angry. I really wanted to hurt some of the men who rejoiced at his death. I didn’t...I just turned and walked away.

I had to live with the memory of what I had done. Maybe some day they will have to live with theirs.

My sixteen year old daughter overheard me telling this story to my wife tonight. I had never shared it with either of them. I was prompted to tell my wife about it because the subject being debated on MSNBC was the ‘macaca” comment by George Allen.

She (my daughter) after hearing me tell my story, asked if she could use it as a topic of an essay at school, because her latest assignment was to write something about one of their parents.

I told her that it would fine with me, but to let me see it before she submitted it so that I could ensure that she could get all the facts down accurately.

I then decided that I would put it down on paper for her to read after she had written her version of what she had heard.

It is my hope that my retelling of this story will give pause to whoever may read it, and in doing so, allow them to reflect on matters such as these, and the sometimes far-reaching effect that they may have on others.

I carry the following words around in my mind and heart with me, and I’ve done my best to live by them ever since that day in Vietnam.

Martin Luther King...... “I Have a Dream” August 28, 1963. - “I have a dream......that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.