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.

[dcasper70]

Myrtle,

Please write a book.

[LetItBe]

Awesome post...just awesome. If you wouldn't mind posting the follow up comments (and maybe what prompted them if you remember?) it would be great.

[Runkmud]

Great post Myrtle, and I second the book vote.

I grew up in Mississippi in a much later time, however, much has not changed there. Thankfully my parents brought me up to eschew racism rather than embrace it. Even so, I remember many experiences similar to the one you described, but could put none down so eloquently as you have.

[ChipWrecked]

My dad was a racist. I remember him telling me during George Wallace's campaign that he had no problem with Wallace wanting to send 'the [censored] back to Africa' in principle. It could never work, dad said, because there were too many of them now; and they were Americans. "They couldn't any more survive in Africa then you or I could. But I like the idea."

We lived in the lily-white Arkansas Ozarks then. There probably wasn't a black person within a hundred mile radius of us. There was plenty of racial hate around though, of people most of the locals had never met.

When I was a senior in high school, our basketball team was pretty good. It looked like we were headed to State. Our coaches got us a Saturday game with one of the 'black teams' further south so we'd have some exposure before the tournament. The game went off well, though we felt way out of our element being the only white people in the gym. Lord only knows what those kids thought of us.

We did make it to the state tournament. Our school had trouble finding accommodations for us. Our principal sat the team down and explained that he finally got so desperate that he told a motel manager "I don't know what else to say, except that they're all white."
"Well, why didn't you say so? Of course they can stay here."
The principal said he hated to pull that card, but he didn't know what else to do. He warned us not to 'show our asses' at the motel.

When I got to the University of Arkansas, I was pretty country. In the country, you greet everyone you see, even on the highway. I was saying hello to people I met on the sidewalk... the white kids never answered. Only the black students did. That was how I learned to say 'Sup'. Several of my first college friends were black students. I never told dad.

Now I live in California and have a three year old daughter. I see now that it's true: kids don't see race. That's something they're taught. My daughter plays with any kid she meets. She never uses skin color to describe a kid; she goes by clothes.

I'm doing everything I can to make sure she stays blind to skin tone as long as possible. It's just another part of the world I want to protect her from as long as possible.



Great post Myrtle. Thanks.

[rothko]

myrtle, well-written. touching and poignant. sad how such a simple mistake really messed things up for those boys and for you. to never see them again, to never play ball with them again . . . must've made you feel pretty small.

in my early teens, i used to be one of those people that thought words were just words and anyone who had a problem with them, well, it was their problem. i wish i could remember what it was that made me realize if words hurt people it's not their problem, it's mine.

[Duke]

@OP

I think the same thing would happen in 2007 as happened in 1959. You're starting with a couple black kids that already feel like outcasts, and are pushed away even more.

I'm positive that in 2007, if the makeup were 17 black kids and 1 or 2 white kids, the same statement leads to everyone laughing their asses off together. Do you think that that would have been true in 1959 (17 black 1 other, same statement, everyone laughs)?

It's just your judgment that we can go by, but I'm trying to figure out how much of it is the word itself (and the historically derogatory implications) changing in meaning and use, how important the timing is (blatant racism throughout the US), and how much has always been with the perceived intent of the statement.

[blackize]

[ QUOTE ]

Now I live in California and have a three year old daughter. I see now that it's true: kids don't see race. That's something they're taught. My daughter plays with any kid she meets. She never uses skin color to describe a kid; she goes by clothes.

[/ QUOTE ]

It's really true. My dad has a similar story he likes to tell from time to time, and along with it comes the story of the first time he told the story.

The private school I attended as a kid went from 3-12th grade, I entered in 4th. Just before I was to enter the middle school, 7th+8th grade, the middle school headmaster had retired. The school sent out newsletters saying that they were conducting and exhaustive, nationwide search.

A few weeks before school was to begin a letter was sent out to let the parents know that they had found a new headmaster, Randall C. Dunn III. His resume was quite impressive. He graduated from Harvard and a great job history. He turns out to be the perfect candidate for the job and embodied all the principles the school was trying to instill in us. He was kind, gentlemanly, intelligent, generous, and respectful.

Things went along as usual until a couple months into the school year at the homecoming game. My dad asked me to introduce him to Mr. Dunn. I pointed to a group of teachers talking and said, "That's Mr. Wu, Mr. Fleming, Mr. Brown, and Mr. Dunn." My dad said, "Well which one is Mr. Dunn." I responded by saying, "The guy in the striped sweater." He was amazed by the fact that I didn't say "The black guy" and even more amazed since it would have been terribly easy to explain that he is the black guy since there are maybe 10 black students in the school at the time and 2 black faculty members.

Now for some reason my dad enjoys telling this story. The first person he told it to though was his boss. He tells her the story(omitting the details about Mr. Dunn's background) and her immediate response is, "An affirmative action hire I'm sure."

It's amazing how our perspective and biases change over time. I went from being colorblind up until the 7th grade to making the same distinction Chris Rock does, between black people and n******.

[Fishwhenican]

Great post Myrtle!
Thank you for sharing that!

[daveT]

Very nice. I guess since we are all getting sentimental, I will share with you my own experiences in racism. I am not nearly the writer of the OP, and I hope that this is not seen as a hijack.

I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio. I once heard it described as the most racially divided place outside of South Africa. I grew up more specifically in East Cleveland, the first suburb in America. It was once the richest suburb in America, but I will get to that later. Right now, it is 3% white and a nasty, dirty, ghetto. I grew up in these conditions. Back when I was younger, I learned that we are all to be separated. I don't know where I learned this originally, but I knew it was true. My only friend back then was a white girl. There was some point in life that we learn that we are all separated by race, intelligence, and sex. I was not one of the smart ones either. It took me the full school year to finish my first assignment. I didn't understand that I lived in a very dangerous neighborhood. I would stay out late at night and scare my parents. I was given money and I would give it away if I was asked for it. But this separation had nothing to do with race back then, at least not to me. But there was the fights, and I remember that there were a ton of fights, but mostly between white and white or black and black. I remember that I once wished my mother "Happy Martin Luther King Day." To say she was appalled would be an understatement.

Around ten, I moved out to Lorraine County. This was a culture shock in the way of OP. There was no sidewalks, little traffic, and few black people. The new family I lived with was racist as could be, though they were in denial of it. I guess the main proof was their dog hated black people.

But the whole subject of Black people was touchy there. February is Black History Month. During that time, many white kids refused to go to school, and formed a picket line every morning and evening in front of the school. The black kids seldomly made it through the day without being beat up. Martin Luther King day was bastardized to find a black dude and beat him up day.

Five years later I move back to Cleveland. I attended John Marshall. I was once again in the minority. But the school was mixed enough that I was able to have friends outside of school. For the most part we all hung around our own color. My best friend at the time was Cambodian, but we never hung out with each other's crowd. I also happened to be one of the few people to break the Color Barrier in a fight. I won, and was never challenged to another fight.

Years later, I was staying at a Hostel in Los Angeles and we held an open mike. It was more for comedians, but we allowed music and spoken word.

I told the organizer that I was going to do a story on racism. He was black and went on to have a very successful time here. He didn't like the idea, but I told him I would be sensitive.

"Andrew"

Karamu House, 1997. The Karamu House is located in East Cleveland, among an area called Millionaires Row. The first mansion was emptied out 30 years earlier, when the first black family moved in down the street. There are no more mansions here, they have been replaced by project housing and boarded up windows. The Karamu House is the last remnant of those days. It sits silent, surrounded by a dilapitated Cast Iron Fence. My Father and I were invited to see a ballet, directed by one of his co-workers. We were the only white people. Everyone's eyes were on us. They thought that we were agents from New York City. They refused to shake my hand when we present, and they refused to look at us. It was clear that I was not welcome there. The mantra I have heard so much rang in my head: Four Hundred Years, Four Hundred Years. It never would occur to them that my family is poorer than them, or that my own grand-parents ran from the same discrimination they have me for.

When I was in high school, I was part of a click that called ourselves "The Freaks." We were the anti-thesis to the whites people who listened to rap music. We tried hard to not acknowledge our city accents. We attended shows with other people wearing black. Among the crowd was the "Skin Heads." We perhaps picked on black people, but as a curiosity, not as an expression of hate. The hate the Skin Heads displayed was beyond fathomable to us, though we did have drunken parties, and often popped in "Romper Stomper." One of our crew was Japanese. We all enjoyed watching this movie together for a good laugh.

Any, on to Andrew. Andrew was the kid that never quite fit in with anyone. He really liked me, and I can't help feeling responsible for the day that he walked in with a rainbow hair-cut in a mow-hawk. What did I think? I thought he looked like an idiot. But now Andrew was by default a begrudged part of our click. Some people did like him, but I never wanted to see him outside of school. But he got into our music and made it to a party or two. I started seeing him at school.

It was ending on the 1997 school year. At this point, a friend and I had officially dropped out, but we still went to the parties and still attended school once every two weeks.

Graduation was now a few weeks away, for those who made it. After school one day, Andrew was walking through the parking lot of Wendy's and the corner of 140th street and Lorraine Avenue, one of the busiest intersections on the city. Three cards pulled up and 20 black people stepped out and beat Andrew near to death. He managed to stand up after the lynching, but he collapsed to the ground. He lost an eye, had to have reconstruction surgery on his face, lost a lot of his hair and suffered many broken bones. I heard he wanted me to visit him in the hospital. I never could do it. I left the clique shortly after that, and I never heard of him, or my old friends again.