Wednesday, January 7, 2009

The rEvolution Continues...

Blog Post: Jan 7, 2009

The rEvolution Continues:

January 1, 1863 was the date of the signing of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation! It would be useful and informative to Google and print out a copy.

The new year has begun and by now, most of the New Year’s resolutions have been broken already.

Also, much of the Election Day fever/fervor has died down. There is some level of excitement regarding the upcoming inauguration, but only a very small percentage of the tens of millions of Obama supporters who voted and worked for his election will be attending. I strongly considered attending, but the thought of being among 3 million plus attendees in Washington, DC just wasn’t that appealing. So, I’ll be watching on TV like most of you.

Shortly after election day, I was told by several different friends that I looked like I’d lost weight. I assured them I hadn’t, at least not according to my scale. However, on further reflection, I could see that there was an “unburdening” of sorts, and following are some of the “weights” I shed:

What first came to mind was the fact that my mom, who died at age 91, did not live long enough to see an African American elected President of the United States. She had endured many of the indignities over the years, by virtue of simply being black in America. In addition to years of not being allowed to eat in a public restaurant, or check into a hotel, and all the jobs that were denied due to her race, the one that stands out was her recounting of the fact that the high school she attended (Englewood High School in Chicago) which had a long-standing policy of honoring the senior valedictorian by letting them play the school organ at graduation, denied her the privilege, in spite of the fact that she attained the highest grade point average in the school’s history, was a classically-trained musician – in addition to being the valedictorian!

(Note: She was somewhat vindicated when, 60 years later, she was able to play that same organ at the graduation of one of her piano student’s.)

I thought too, of my dad, who was raised in the rural South, only had an eighth grade education, and spent his life doing menial jobs and making the best of it. One of those jobs was being the chauffer to tobacco tycoon, R.J. Reynolds. He told me many stories of the kinds of embarrassing, ass-kissing situations he had to endure – and how he survived when there was NO Civil Rights Act, NO Voting Rights Act (it was against the law for him to vote – until he was 53 years old!).

He too died before being able to celebrate the election of an African American to the highest office of the land.

My grandparents on both sides, and my great grandparents, who lived through slavery (as both slaves AND slave-owners), couldn’t have imagined in their wildest dreams, what took place on November 5, 2008.

Then, there were my personal experiences… leaving my highly-integrated neighborhood to attend kindergarten in the highly-racially segregated “other-side-of-the-tracks” neighborhood and called “Nigger” for the first time. (I later discovered it wouldn’t be the last.)

Later moving to the Chatham neighborhood in Chicago, where the street Cottage Grove was the racial dividing line. I had to cross that line daily to go to school (7th and 8th grades), and I had to run home every day to keep from being beaten up by the white kids who made it clear I and my “kind” were not welcome. That attitude was also reflected in the teaching staff of the school.

Just two blocks East of Cottage Grove was one of the most luxurious parks in the Chicago Park District system at the time. A large swimming pool, tennis courts, several baseball diamonds, a running track and large field house – all of which were off limits to black kids, so we played in vacant lots and on the street.

The summer I graduated from elementary school, a group of us who had formed a bike club of sorts and lived West of Cottage Grove, decided we were going to integrate the park. There were about 30 of us, and on a Saturday afternoon that summer, we ventured across the dividing line. There was such an outrage from the neighbors that we were chased back across Cottage Grove, and the mob had reached hundreds of fever-pitched, highly-irate “good people” who just didn’t want any “darkies” in their territory, that the State Police were called in.

Several of my group were unsuccessful at getting back across Cottage Grove before being caught and beaten by the angry mob. Luckily, I wasn’t one of them.

I had thought that the days of terror were over once I graduated from elementary school. Until, that is, when I got to the high school I had chosen to attend. I deliberately didn’t go to the local high school because it was just 1 block away from the elementary school (and neighborhood) I so desperately wanted to get away from.

The high school was at the time, one of the best in the city – a large vocational school that had once been a training facility for the Navy. Student population – 5,000 plus. The number of black students – about 200. And even though it, too was East of Cottage (by more blocks than I could successfully run), I had originally concluded that because it was much further South, it wouldn’t be like my grammar school experience. Such is the thinking of a 14 year old.

I soon learned that my earlier school experiences paled in comparison with what lie ahead over the next 4 years.

At the end of the school day, there were dozens of buses lined up to take students westward bound… back to the safe-haven West of Cottage Grove. In the span of about 10 minutes, those buses were boarded and on their way. To miss those buses meant a certain brutal beating at the hands of the bigger, stronger white kids who viewed us as intruders.

Also, going to the bathrooms at school was a health risk, because it was known as the “beating ground” for black kids (at least the boys – I didn’t hear of similar treatment being meted out to the few girls who attended). So, that meant don’t drink a lot of liquids before school or at school, because I was going to have to hold it until I got home.

I didn’t know that first semester that I was going to remain the same height and weight (4’ 10” and 97 lbs) until my senior year. This meant that pretty much everyone was bigger than me. And for some reason, they grew especially “big” at that school. Football Hall of Famer and Chicago Bear Linebacker, Dick Butkus attended this school, and the average weight of our team’s front line was around 275 lbs. A 178 lb difference that was a clear indication that I wasn’t cut out to play football.

To top things off, the principal’s name was “Jim Crowe.” REALLY!

There were separate school stores – 3 for the white kids, and 1 where black kids could go without being attacked. I unwittingly went into one of the “wrong” stores the first week of school to purchase my gym clothes and drafting equipment. Both items were towards the back of the store. I and my friend from elementary school, Dennis, made it to the back of the store and purchased our items without incident.

Getting out was another story. First of all, the pathway to the door had disappeared, and in its place was a gauntlet of angry white faces through which we had to pass in order to get back to the “outside world.” It took what seemed like forever to get through the punches, kicks and spittle of my fellow students before reaching the street. My smaller size meant there wasn’t as much surface area to punch and kick as my friend Dennis. He got the worst of the beatings that day.

The last day of school of each semester was guaranteed to be extra violent, as the white kids thought they could be especially awful towards us with impunity, and history bore that out.

By the time I reached 18, the violence had diminished quite a bit, partly because there was quite an increase in the number of black students.

(Note: I deliberately left out what I experienced during my participation in the Civil Rights Movement, as enough of those events/activities were captured by various news media. Suffice it to say that I thought the passage of the Civil Rights Act would have eradicated the evils of racism. How wrong [and naïve] I was.)

The next round of experiences as a black man in America came when I was drafted into the U.S. Army. The year, 1965. I was just completing my sophomore year in college and planning to transfer to a 4 year university. I quit my two part-time jobs, was given a going away party by my friends, and prepared to go, when I got a certified letter from the Selective Service, informing me that my induction “had been indefinitely postponed.” When I contacted them to inquire as to what exactly that meant, they told me it simply meant, “indefinitely!” So, I went back to work and continued the application process to 4-year universities.

A couple of weeks later, I got yet another letter from the draft board, and this time, there was NO “indefinite postponement.”

My best buddy picked me up at 4am to drive me to the induction center, as I was told to report at 5am. After taking numerous tests, bending and coughing, and needlessly being moved from one room to another, only to sit and wait until time to move to yet another room, we were finally ushered into a larger room where we took the oath. “…to protect and defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, so help us God!”

By midnight we were finally ready to be transported to O’Hare Airport – the military side, for a flight to some remote airfield in Mississippi. It was pouring rain through the entire 3 hr flight – on a propeller plane, that dipped and swayed the whole time. It was more volatile than ANY roller coaster.

Once we landed, we were instructed to board military buses that would take us the rest of the way to our destination – Fort Polk, Louisiana. It was another 2 hours or so before we finally arrived. As we disembarked, there were several very large, stocky Drill Instructors yelling instructions us. The essence of the yelling was that our civilian life was over, and our asses now belonged to them!

(If you’re wondering what this has to do with the election and the “unburdening,” stay tuned…)

This was the height of the Vietnam build-up, and we were in an extended basic training – 16 weeks instead of 8. Thirteen weeks into the training, after thinking I’d seen the full expanse of racial discrimination, we were given a 3-day pass. The ONLY place to go that was within range was Leesville, Louisiana. (Also known as “diseaseville.”) A very small town, where the sheriff sat on the porch of the jail, wearing mirrored sun glasses and a hay seed in his mouth – with his shotgun on his lap, shouted to us (I and 3 other black G.I.s) that we’d better high-tail it to the other side of town (across the tracks – literally) if we wanted to stay out of trouble.

Although I was wearing the uniform of the United States Army, I was denied entry to one of the bars because they “didn’t serve niggers.” And right there, on main street, were the signs over the drinking fountains, “white,” and “colored.” I chalked it up to the ink still being wet on the Civil Rights Act and/or, the news might not have filtered down yet. I and my comrades left and proceeded to the “other side of town.” A series of shacks where we could buy 3.2 beer and really bad whiskey that came in bottles with no label. It was like walking back in time several decades.

Once again, I figured it was just one of the many prices I had to pay as an African in America.

The final straws of racial indignities began when, as a member of Army Special Forces, I arrived in Vietnam – for a war that I didn’t support, was called nigger by Vietnamese villagers – the very people I was supposed to be there to protect/defend.

The ultimate straw – the one that “broke the camel’s back,” and had me both elect to do a second tour in Vietnam – and then, NEVER return to the United States, was when news of Dr. King’s assassination reached us – 4 days before my 1st tour of duty was to end, and the “good-ole-boys” in the company of my base camp celebrated, by flying the confederate flag over the base headquarters. It took all the discipline and non-violent protest training from my past to not act on my desire to set fire to and blow up the camp.

I did eventually return to the U.S., and made my best efforts at reintegrating myself into civilian life.

There were the jobs I was denied for bogus reasons, including the one with a major publishing company that actually told me that the reason I wasn’t being promoted to Regional Manager of the Southeastern Region was because no one white would do what I told them to do!

There were all the times I was profiled by the police – simply for being black, including the time I was installing a stereo in my car, and the police assumed I was stealing, so they handcuffed me and had me stand behind the car while they checked the registration. There was no apology or “have a nice day.” They just removed the cuffs and left. I considered myself lucky, as Chicago is notorious for police misconduct. (The city has paid out close to $250 Million in settlements to victims of police misconduct in 2008 alone!) It also included the time I was followed for several blocks by a police cruiser with 2 white officers inside. I wasn’t speeding, there was nothing wrong with my vehicle, but they stopped me anyway. When I asked them why I was being stopped, they told me they didn’t have to tell me. Then, they asked, “did I want to go to court, or what?” That’s Chicago code for, cough up some bribe money. When I told them I didn’t have any money – I had just spent it on the pizza in the back seat, they opened the back door, took the pizza and told me to get on my way.

Or the time I had stayed at the bowling alley later than the last bus left the area going back to my neighborhood. So, I decided to hitch-hike. A young white man asked where I was going and when I told him, he agreed to give me a ride.

We hadn’t gone more than a couple of blocks before an unmarked police car stopped us. It was the dead of winter, but the officer wouldn’t let me put my gloves on, and instructed me to place my hands on the roof of the car. He wanted to know why I was in the car with this white man? I told him I was hitching a ride home from the bowling alley because I had missed the last bus. He didn’t believe me – OR the driver, and with his gun drawn on me the whole time, accused me of trying to kidnap the driver. It wasn’t until we went back to the bowling alley and confirmed that in fact, I had just left there, and in fact, was president of the bowling league that had been bowling there steadily for the past few years, that the cop let me go.

As I stood in Grant Park, after spending election day doing the final canvassing in Whiting, Indiana (a town that denied our college bowling banquet in 1964 when they found out there would be blacks coming to the restaurant), listening to now President-Elect Barack Obama, make his victory speech, all of those racial wounds from the past healed in an instant.

As I looked into the eyes of the other election day celebrants and obvious Obama supporters, I could see that nearly all of the whites had the same look of relief and healing. For them, I presumed having to bear the burden of being descendents of the perpetrators of slavery and all the subsequent injustices. And, for those who weren’t direct descendents, at least were beneficiaries of the privileges that accrued by virtue of being white.

So, what lies ahead? Will our new President and his cabinet be able to pull this country out of the huge mess we’re in? Will the race haters diminish their activities long enough for us to fulfill on the original intent of the Declaration of Independence – “all men (people) created equal?”

Stay tuned…

No comments:

Post a Comment