|
- navigation -
ron
writings
home
feedback
|
The 12 ft ceilings of Depression vintage school cracked and peeled. Long dormant pipes from the old steam radiators lingered like ribs of long dead leviathan. Sunlight filtered through once white now gray Venetian blinds. The smell of old swirled in my nostrils. My chubby little frame was planted in my seat. The lady teacher’s tone was more grave than usual. She spoke of Martin Luther King and racial equality. She said how the color of a person’s skin didn’t matter. I listened, knowing my parents had told me the same thing, but still was reverent and thoughtful as I mulled over the topic. The teacher let the class go to the bathroom. The Native American boy across from me and I were talking as we walked down the mint green hall with crinkly finger paintings taped on the stucco walls.
"I don’t understand the difference." He said
"Me neither. People are dumb." I said.
We made our way into the dimly yellowy lit bathroom. We each stepped up to the tall parceling urinals. It was such an unsettling experience peeing in a urinal taller than me.
"I mean I don’t care you’re white. He said.
"I know, I wouldn’t care if you were black or yellow or purple with pink polka dots." I said.
I felt a little sorry for him. I knew he was poorer than I was and was a little rough. I knew there were people out there who would treat him badly.
This is one of my earliest, clearest memories involving contemplations on race. In my childish exuberance I was saying not only what I had been told was right, but also what I believed.
My friend Julian and his skinny brothers and I are flipping between "In Living Color" and "Beavis and Butthead". The cool of his basement is a relief from the sweaty game of 10,000 we had been playing outside.
"Did you hear Mike Schwartz talking about how this show was all racist the other day?" Jeremy said
"What?" Said I.
We all gave a chuckle-snort
"Yea, he was all goin’ off about how it trashes white people." Julian lowed.
"What, just because the show is mostly black people he gets upset. Whaddaya expect from an Aryan son of a Republican parochial school principal? I mean, I guess I sorta can see what he means but, I think a dis here and there is a good thing." I testified.
"Yea, I don’t think a sketch comedy show makes up for 400 some odd years of slavery." Julian quipped.
"No shit." I agree with a chuckle, partially to show my agreement with what they said as well as to ease the tension a bit. Even though they were my good friends, I wanted to make sure I picked my words carefully on this subject.
I remember that T.V. show was a little risqué back then. It was edgy and came on the same night as the Simpsons. They would make some caustic jokes on race that really had some social commentary in them. It would get my fourteen-year-old mind thinking and a little pissed off at the establishment. Beavis and Butthead were just plain funny. Plus I think it shows a little culture mixing; the fact that we would switch between these shows and laugh our butts off at both of them, albeit for different reasons.
After 31/2 hours on the road, it was time for a pit stop.
"It’s official. My spit has completely turned into foam." The Mexican rasped, working his tongue around to get some moisture going again.
"Huh?" I said, as I turned down Alice in Chains’ "Jar of Flies"
"Pull in this gas station so I can get some All Sport and some grits and I’ll call Rayla."
"Oh, ok. Where exactly in Concordia were we supposed to meet her anyway?" I say as I roll down the window to get some fresh air and try to come to grips with the fact that I don’t think I’m in Nebraska anymore.
"Get me some of that Gatorade Frost stuff." I say as he opens the car door and gets out. Two ‘big city’ kids blow into Kansas with two motel rooms to rent, too much tequila in the trunk, too many unexposed pictures in the disposable camera and way too much attitude dripping off the both of them like brackish water.
I remain in the humid blue car, admiring the bricks of the Kwik Shop. Later, the door to the store opens and out comes Jason. He holds the door for this lanky white boy in cowboy boots and a buzz cut who then is nice enough to say, "Get a haircut, hippie." I watch with muted indignance as he walks in and Jason gets in the car.
"Can you believe that fuckin’ guy? I got my hands full of shit and still hold the door and he says some bullshit like that. I swear, when I was using the phone in there I thought I was gonna hear "Git ‘em boys, he’s different!" Jason tersely spat, his tone revealing a little of the hurt I knew he was feeling.
"Are you kidding? What a prick! I guess we are in the middle of farm country." I say.
"Yea, here, grab your drink. Rayla said to meet her at the town bar and grill. She gets off at 3."
"Let’s get outta here."
"No shit. Go up here and take a left."
To me, this memory demonstrates how even a guy with a dark completion can get hassled these days. At that time I had long hair, but then it’s blonde, not black. That experience was one of the more blatant forms of intolerance that I have personally come across lately.
|
