I'm Still Stuck In the 60's, More or Less
Yesterday was my lifemate's birthday. (Happy Birthday, Meemer, again.) We had cake and a birthday dinner and then sat around idly chattering. Somehow or another we got on the subject of the things we used to play on/with as kids, as opposed to today's children, who get the homogonized, sanitized, round-edged stuff. No metal slides for them! No sirree, this little character builder is a thing of the past in many areas.
But that whole discussion made me remember something, which I've found myself mulling over on and off since yesterday afternoon.
When I was small (and living in a rural part of Georgia with my parents), I went, briefly, to a public elementary school. This ended about the time I hit third grade, more or less because my parents were counseled that I really needed a more challenging environment, i.e. private school.
But this isn't about that particular story.
The particular memory that cropped up was of a schoolyard playmate, whose name is lost to the ages (that was 35-ish years ago, yanno) and the time I invited her over to my house to play. Well, sort of invited. In keeping with the times (late 60's) I had 'to ask my parents if it was okay'.
Now, my memories are a little fuzzy (again I plead 3 decades' worth of elapsed time as my excuse) but as near as I recall, my mother listened very patiently, found out which child it was that I wanted to invite, then gently (but firmly) told me she 'didn't think it was a good idea'.
Now, in those heady days, my parents were gods. I believed (quite rightly) that they loved me very much and wanted what was best for me (this point also being true). So I ever questioned their decision... I only went back to my friend and told her my parents (well, mom) had said it wasn't a good idea.
End of that.
I might've wondered why, vaguely, in the back of my mind, but if I did I don't remember. I might've protested, but if I did it was brief-- like I said, I loved my parents, they loved me, and if they made a decision I accepted it. Most small children do, with the occasional whine and pout. I never thought twice about it, until that particular memory surfaced like the Nautilus, with Nemo at the wheel.
I understand what my mother was saying, now, and more particularly I understand what WASN'T said. You do see where this is going, don't you? Rural South, late 60's... why would my folks, who were if anything pretty down-to earth and openminded (Dad mustered out of the Army after serving in World War II. Mom followed him as a nurse's assistant, in fact my second oldest brother was born on Okinawa) think there was anything wrong with my playing with another little girl?
Unless, of course, and you've probably guessed it, her skin color was a few shades darker than mine.
She was black, I was white, and in the 1960's that 'wasn't a good idea'.
Bless her, Mom must've had a hard moment. I didn't have a lot of friends, I've always been something of a loner. For me to want to invite someone home to play must've meant I really liked them and they really liked me. I like to think, now, through the lens of afterthought, that maybe she hesitated just a second or two, wondering how to put it so she wouldn't hurt me too much, but make it clear the subject was closed, to avoid the dreaded 'But why?'
I haven't thought about that in years, as I said. Both my parents are long departed this world, and whatever Mom was thinking I'll never really know. But I do wonder, now, now that I'm thinking about that old memory... how did she feel, the other little girl? Did she go home and cry to her mother, who maybe gave her a hug and tried to explain why 'it wasn't a good idea'? Did she try to make her little girl feel better about being handed her first slice of the prejudice pie? Bitter dessert, that, it's dry and hard to choke down, and sometimes it can leave you sickened for life.
But my parents didn't mean any harm. For the time, for the place, that was the way things were, and they were only doing what society told them was 'right' to do. My father was a fair man, in his way. I remember a time he sent me and Mom down in his little truck to the (and pardon this stereotype term, please) 'dark side of town' to deliver some money to a young man who worked for him (my dad was a self-employed carpenter/homebuilder, and he stayed in work year round because he had the reputation for doing it right the first time and building a thing to last, be it a dock, a house, or a patio). He hired black people to work for him, preferred them to white I think. He had a 'crew' of about 5-7 that regularly worked with him, and this young man I mentioned was one of his 'regulars'. The young man was ill, I think, or injured, or something, and my Dad wanted to make sure he and his family were OK. So he sent Mom and me to take the man his paycheck, deliver it personally so Mom could let him know if things were all right. This was way back before workman's comp, you understand.
And yes, my father used the 'N' word (apologies again). But he differentiated it. To him, that term was reserved for anyone of color who was lazy, or dishonest, or too willing to sit on their backside and let the government take care of them. Any black person who was willing to get out and work earned my father's respect, and he never worked them any harder than he worked himself.
I know. That doesn't make my Dad a saint. In a way that still caters to the old ideal of 'good darkies' and 'bad darkies', and here's another apology. It's in the history books; that's the way white Americans used to think, before civil rights. I still kind of cling to the hope that even if he 'talked the talk', in his own private thoughts he'd grown a little out of that.
But not enough, obviously, in the fine year 1968 Anno Domini, for me to have a black girl come home to play.
I suppose what all this means, where all this is going, is that I wish, I hope, that my young friend grew up proud of herself. That she brushed it off, like kids will, they rebound so fast from hurts of the heart sometimes. That when it came time for her kids to bring home friends, she didn't think about the color of their skin-- and neither did her kids, or their friends.
I don't remember your name, I'm sorry. I don't remember what you really looked like. I only remember in our eyes there wasn't anything wrong with going to visit each other's houses to play.
And I hope, as I write this, that someday everyone will be the same we were, before time and society stepped in to tell us it isn't 'a good idea'. Because, you know, I do remember that much, fuzzily, like a dream. There was a time when I really didn't know the difference between us, because there wasn't one.
You were just another little girl.
But that whole discussion made me remember something, which I've found myself mulling over on and off since yesterday afternoon.
When I was small (and living in a rural part of Georgia with my parents), I went, briefly, to a public elementary school. This ended about the time I hit third grade, more or less because my parents were counseled that I really needed a more challenging environment, i.e. private school.
But this isn't about that particular story.
The particular memory that cropped up was of a schoolyard playmate, whose name is lost to the ages (that was 35-ish years ago, yanno) and the time I invited her over to my house to play. Well, sort of invited. In keeping with the times (late 60's) I had 'to ask my parents if it was okay'.
Now, my memories are a little fuzzy (again I plead 3 decades' worth of elapsed time as my excuse) but as near as I recall, my mother listened very patiently, found out which child it was that I wanted to invite, then gently (but firmly) told me she 'didn't think it was a good idea'.
Now, in those heady days, my parents were gods. I believed (quite rightly) that they loved me very much and wanted what was best for me (this point also being true). So I ever questioned their decision... I only went back to my friend and told her my parents (well, mom) had said it wasn't a good idea.
End of that.
I might've wondered why, vaguely, in the back of my mind, but if I did I don't remember. I might've protested, but if I did it was brief-- like I said, I loved my parents, they loved me, and if they made a decision I accepted it. Most small children do, with the occasional whine and pout. I never thought twice about it, until that particular memory surfaced like the Nautilus, with Nemo at the wheel.
I understand what my mother was saying, now, and more particularly I understand what WASN'T said. You do see where this is going, don't you? Rural South, late 60's... why would my folks, who were if anything pretty down-to earth and openminded (Dad mustered out of the Army after serving in World War II. Mom followed him as a nurse's assistant, in fact my second oldest brother was born on Okinawa) think there was anything wrong with my playing with another little girl?
Unless, of course, and you've probably guessed it, her skin color was a few shades darker than mine.
She was black, I was white, and in the 1960's that 'wasn't a good idea'.
Bless her, Mom must've had a hard moment. I didn't have a lot of friends, I've always been something of a loner. For me to want to invite someone home to play must've meant I really liked them and they really liked me. I like to think, now, through the lens of afterthought, that maybe she hesitated just a second or two, wondering how to put it so she wouldn't hurt me too much, but make it clear the subject was closed, to avoid the dreaded 'But why?'
I haven't thought about that in years, as I said. Both my parents are long departed this world, and whatever Mom was thinking I'll never really know. But I do wonder, now, now that I'm thinking about that old memory... how did she feel, the other little girl? Did she go home and cry to her mother, who maybe gave her a hug and tried to explain why 'it wasn't a good idea'? Did she try to make her little girl feel better about being handed her first slice of the prejudice pie? Bitter dessert, that, it's dry and hard to choke down, and sometimes it can leave you sickened for life.
But my parents didn't mean any harm. For the time, for the place, that was the way things were, and they were only doing what society told them was 'right' to do. My father was a fair man, in his way. I remember a time he sent me and Mom down in his little truck to the (and pardon this stereotype term, please) 'dark side of town' to deliver some money to a young man who worked for him (my dad was a self-employed carpenter/homebuilder, and he stayed in work year round because he had the reputation for doing it right the first time and building a thing to last, be it a dock, a house, or a patio). He hired black people to work for him, preferred them to white I think. He had a 'crew' of about 5-7 that regularly worked with him, and this young man I mentioned was one of his 'regulars'. The young man was ill, I think, or injured, or something, and my Dad wanted to make sure he and his family were OK. So he sent Mom and me to take the man his paycheck, deliver it personally so Mom could let him know if things were all right. This was way back before workman's comp, you understand.
And yes, my father used the 'N' word (apologies again). But he differentiated it. To him, that term was reserved for anyone of color who was lazy, or dishonest, or too willing to sit on their backside and let the government take care of them. Any black person who was willing to get out and work earned my father's respect, and he never worked them any harder than he worked himself.
I know. That doesn't make my Dad a saint. In a way that still caters to the old ideal of 'good darkies' and 'bad darkies', and here's another apology. It's in the history books; that's the way white Americans used to think, before civil rights. I still kind of cling to the hope that even if he 'talked the talk', in his own private thoughts he'd grown a little out of that.
But not enough, obviously, in the fine year 1968 Anno Domini, for me to have a black girl come home to play.
I suppose what all this means, where all this is going, is that I wish, I hope, that my young friend grew up proud of herself. That she brushed it off, like kids will, they rebound so fast from hurts of the heart sometimes. That when it came time for her kids to bring home friends, she didn't think about the color of their skin-- and neither did her kids, or their friends.
I don't remember your name, I'm sorry. I don't remember what you really looked like. I only remember in our eyes there wasn't anything wrong with going to visit each other's houses to play.
And I hope, as I write this, that someday everyone will be the same we were, before time and society stepped in to tell us it isn't 'a good idea'. Because, you know, I do remember that much, fuzzily, like a dream. There was a time when I really didn't know the difference between us, because there wasn't one.
You were just another little girl.