I don’t remember Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., not like Jim remembers. Jim was in 4th grade when Martin Luther King was assassinated. He says he remembers Walter Cronkite cackling over a black-and-white TV tube. I can picture the television, set in a blond wood console with long spindly legs. I can picture Jim’s dad with his tortoise-frame glasses and Jim’s mom with big dark eyes and a small round mouth.
I’m feverish now, not dangerously so but enough that my arms ache as they hold the notebook and pen upright on my stomach, against bent knees. I’m lying down, not wanting to get up again today, although I know I will, eventually. Feverish, which seems like a good state to be in, a non-remembering place. I have blurry vision, and all I can say is, I was young young and innocent.
I would have been in Mrs. Salisbury’s class, or wait, she was second grade. She was tall and black and wore shoes I associate with nurses. I bet she remembers Martin Luther King as if it were yesterday, MLK-the-time as well as MLK-the-man.
They say, these days, I hear it on the news almost every day, that Latinos and Blacks don’t get along well. They say it when talking about Barack Obama and whether he’ll get the Latino vote or whether Hillary Clinton will. I was thinking about that in the bathtub this morning, trying to steam the sick out of me. I thought of a guy I knew in Malaysia who told a joke about crabs in a bucket, how some crabs were Malays, some Indians, some Chinese. It was a politically incorrect joke, the punchline being something to the effect that one of the nationality of crabs pulled down the others while another nationality got out of the bucket by stepping on the others.
It’s auto-discriminación. Self-discrimination, this so-called feud between brown people. You get stepped on enough by white people, you start looking for somebody else to step on. It happens around the world among people who are marginalized.
I remember South Africa and how the neighborhoods ringing Johannesburg went out in concentric circles based on color. Whites in the middle. Indian-White next. India-India, Black-White, Black-India, Black-Black. We get closer to the core the lighter our skin is.
I remember making up a story about being Italian. Italians were Europeans. Caucasians. It was a way of saying, I’m just white like you, a way of stepping on someone else’s back to get a little bit higher. Except I’m not just like you.
I don’t remember Reverend King, don’t remember where I was when I was seven and he died. Probably formulating my story, revising myself so that by the time I got to high school I’d have an alibi when the kids called us spics and called our school Vato High. Mom says she remembers. Her voice gets thin (and forgive my feverishness now — I really should be sleeping not writing) when she says, Oh, I remember it. Those were sad times, she says.
-related to Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – MARTIN LUTHER KING
I thought this was beautiful. The memories, a little blurry, strange, uncomfortable, like your fever, but you’re curled up in the center of both of them.
LikeLike
ybonesy, it’s interesting how we can either connect through our differences or separate ourselves and push others away. And the concept of auto-discriminacion, self-discrimination you talk about…there is another form, too…I know many who have turned others’ hatred of them inward. And learned to hate themselves. It seems like the saddest kind of discrimination – internalized – that against ourselves.
This line struck me – “Probably formulating my story, revising myself so that by the time I got to high school I’d have an alibi..” The way our identities are tweaked and molded to try to fit the norm. To try to protect ourselves.
I appreciated your honesty in this write. You got down in there. And sadly, any of us who have ever been marginalized can probably relate. Thanks for posting this practice.
LikeLike
ybonesy – This was a most moving practice – you remembering your early trials of formulating a self that might be more acceptable among your peers and “pass”. It’s sad to think that the comfort with differences that MLK envisioned so long ago still has not come to truly be. As a young one, you were called “spic”, God knows what other labels many others wore with great discomfort and grew up with, always sensitized to the possibility of wrong being done to them, flinching through life. As a ten year old, I was called a “dirty D.P.” (displaced person) and told “we” were not wanted. I look Italian, Greek, Iraqi, Turkish, Armenian, being a hodge podge of genetic traits of many darker Eastern Europeans and Middle Easterners. And I have always found comfort among people of diverse backgrounds. Under the external skin we are all the same, and just as our structure is common so are our feelings and desires. Although in some sense there has been progress, to me it feels somewhat superficial – If you Americans elected a black president, if the race question did not dog your election process, if, if, if…
I hope you shake your flu or cold. This is a miserable one that lingers, and yet it permitted you to take the time to write this amazing practice! Well done, Gal! G
LikeLike
yb, I also hope you’re feeling better by now, and you are to be commended for writing, in spite of feeling lousy…something i don’t think i could do. I am outraged at the way the WASPS in this country have treated all those who came after their ancestors did, as well as how they treated the “First Nation” people!!
i was a busy stay-at-home mom in the 60’s, having had babies in ’59, ’61, ’63 & ’66! But I’ve always been against any unfairness or prejudices against minorities!
I’m sure the basis for this was the fact that I grew up in Los Angeles, where everyone I knew had moved there from somewhere else…no one looked down their noses at others because they were a little different looking, or went to a different church, etc. The main difference in “class” was economic standing. However, anyone could better that situation, if they were motivated to do so.
I was in college, in Berkeley, in 1956-57, pretty naive, when I became aware that the African-Americans were unhappy with their situation. A number of them had made their “statement” by going to grocery stores, loading up baskets of food, and then leaving them in check-out lines, causing chaos and confusion! I was so surprised…hadn’t a clue! I had always treated everyone as an equal, but when I treated a Black woman classmate in a friendly manner, she accused me of being patronizing towards her, which I found especially puzzling, as she was married to a white man! Of course, racial unrest began to escalate greatly, after this period. I don’t remember who the first person was who said, “You can’t legislate love,”
but it is so true, unfortunately. After observing 1st graders in Oakland, most of them with Dad’s who were dock workers of all races, it was clear to me that integration of the races should have started with the youngest children and been gradual…rather than bus high school kids across cities to “mix” them. The song from the musical, “South Pacific,” about children having to “Be Carefully Taught,” is very true.
I was deeply saddened, when MLK was assasinated, along with the Kennedy brothers. If assasins would only realize that they perpetuate the teachings of their victims, they would save decent, good people a lot of grief!!!
LikeLike
Thank you for the comments. What I most value from this practice is the idea of understanding an event or a time from the eyes of many different people. Marylin, understanding an awakening that happened in your life during this time. I bet that was a universal kind of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother in New Mexico or Jim’s mom had a similar experience.
The other thing, and I said it on QM’s practice on this topic, is how it brought out the other-ness of each of us. Similar to your comment, G. Kids can be so cruel, reflecting the prejudice of their parents.
My daughter recently said the N-word in the carpool. She was practicing flashcards for Social Studies, and the word on the card was Nigeria, I think. She was sounding out the word and came up with the wrong one. Everyone gasped and corrected her. It shook her up so much that that afternoon she came home and cried. She felt she’d done something so horrible that everyone hated her now. I told her it was a helpful experience, she was among friends when the mistake happened. She felt a swift and hard recrimination. It’s good to know that swiftly and that forcefully that what you’ve said is wrong. I told her we all knew it was a mistake. She’d only read the word in a book, never heard it pronounced by anyone. But she learned a great lesson that day, even though it caused her pain.
I remember when my sister had a live-in boyfriend named Alvin. He was black. We all loved him a lot, but I’d be repainting family history if I said there was no concern on the part of my parents. There was, at first. But you know, they got through it. I believe my mom now when she says she has no prejudice against anyone. It comes with time, the gentle wearing away of whatever residues came with one’s generation and the imprints of his or her parents.
LikeLike
QM, yes, that is one of the ways self-discrimination can eat away at a person. Hatred is a terrible emotion. I don’t think people who’ve never experienced it can understand how it bores into a self, and the rest of one’s life almost is spent dealing with it.
LikeLike
marylin & G, thanks for sharing your stories. I agree with ybonesy, part of the value in these practices on MLK is to be able to hear other people’s stories and how they view, both the past and the present, through the eyes of discrimination and change.
marylin, you brought up something important that I think makes it hard to have a conversation – the notion that trying to do the right thing, or have a conversation about these hard subjects (as you tried with your classmate), can be construed as patronizing. But if you don’t talk about them, you’re labeled as cold and not caring.
Remember multi-culturalism, the buzz word of the 90’s? It seems to have backfired in that now everyone is so careful to be politically correct and not offend anyone, that people don’t talk to each other at all about being different. Or Other. We’re all afraid we’ll say the wrong thing.
Part of why I like blogging with ybonesy, is that I learn so much from her about a culture I know very little about. It wakes me up. We are each different in our own ways; we are each Other. It’s another way we can connect, besides being writers and artists.
ybonesy, that story about your daughter and the N-word, it’s very powerful. The reactions were so strong, that everyone gasped. I can see how it frightened her. It makes me wonder though, what if she had not had parents like you to come home to, parents that could put the word into a meaningful context?
It’s kind of like, as adults, we all know what “not” to say. But are the bigger conversations going on around that so that we know what we “can” say? And so that we can all continue to heal and build bridges, rather than remaining silent or putting up walls, or pushing others away with anger.
I think in order to have the conversations we need to have, we all have to risk looking inside at our own prejudices and/or self-hate. I know that’s been a hard part of my journey – to look inside.
When I think of your daughter’s experience, I also wonder how teachers are dealing with these issues as they arise. Are teachers even able to talk about all of this in the classrooms anymore? I’m curious about that. Thanks for sharing that story.
LikeLike
YB, I was also touched by your story about your daughter & the N word. I remembered that years ago, during one of my visits to my hometown, that my oldest niece would always stay with me at my parents house. She was young then, just a preschooler, & I would always do cool things with her hair. One night, before retiring to bed & after a long day of shopping in a nearby city, I asked how she would like me to fix her hair the next day. I remember that she didn’t hesitate & asked if I could make her hair look like a little girl she had seen at a mall. My reply was that I had no idea what she meant. She matter of factly said “You know Aunt D, like the little dark complected girl with all the braids!'” I explained to her that it was far beyond my abilities! But out of the mouth of babes, she is now 27 & we still speak often about that night. D
LikeLike
That was a very dynamic time in American history….
LikeLike
This has been a very interesting blogroll ! I am learning a lot myself. I didn’t know about a KKK house down the road and still don’t know where it is.
I was always ashamed of how the blacks were treated, both in the South and North. Growing up I could never understand why Janie( our maid that did ironing for us) could not sit at the table with us but she could take care of us. To be honest , I’m not sure what they prefer to be called anymore. African Americans, Blacks, or what? It seems a lot of Black Americans are as prejudice as White Americans. When they inter marry , they treat the opposite one with a lot of prejudice. Dad made my brother stop playing with Janie’s son ,when he sometimes had to come to the house with his mom. and I couldn’t understand that at the time either.
I feel a person should be treated with respect unless they prove themselves unworthy of it ,whether they be black or white. I’ve seen so much that has really made me angry an both counts. It still happens all the time. Some things are changing but much to slow and with too much hatred and resentment on both sides. People need to learn not to judge everyone by what a few have done and accept a person for themselves, give each other a chance, treat another like you would like to be treated yourself and the world would be a much better place
I know at work if a customer is testy, I am nice no matter what and they usually change their attitude. We all have bad days and you never know what they have been or are going through at the time.
LikeLike
LB, it was a dynamic time in American history. That’s a good way to describe it. Things were swirling pretty quickly. And it seems like, no matter who you were, you were impacted by what was going on. Not many places to hide.
Mom, I wondered if you knew about the place close to home. I literally had no idea. None of my friends ever talked about it either. Your comment brings up a couple of things – how kids many times don’t understand what they are being taught by their parents. How confusing it can be.
And the other thing is about labels. We need some form of label to have conversations and discourse around these hard issues. Yet it is hard to know how not to offend a person. And, I know for me and my communities, there is disagreement even among gays and lesbians about terminology. It’s also always evolving.
Unless you are part of a certain community, or have someone close to you to ask, many times it’s so hard to know how people want to be referred to. When I lived in Montana I had many Native American friends who wanted me to call them Indians. Yet in the schools at the time, teachers were being taught to teach their kids to use the term Native Americans. And there is dissention, even among each individual community, about what they would like to be called. So confusing.
It’s been rich to read all the comments on both of the MLK practices. I appreciate everyone’s honesty. I know for my part, I see these things come up in subtle ways in the real world every day (and sometimes not so subtle, as ybonesy mentions about her daughter). Yet it’s hard to have the hard conversations in real time, when things are actually taking place. It’s a lot to think about.
LikeLike
QM, perhaps you & MOM would remember the house if I would have added that it was a place where a certain group of feared biker’s would frequent. & you are right that groups such as the KKK hated more than just blacks. I know it still goes on everywhere today. The hatred I mean. When I spoke about my niece & how she referred to the little girl at the mall, I was trying to say that in my nieces eyes this girl was nothing more than a little girl just like her,
only dark complected. How innocent we all are when we are young & how some get robbed of that innocence without having the ability to explore their own thoughts & views. D
LikeLike
I remember that night very clearly. I was out collecting for my paper route; our folks had gone somewhere. When I got home my younger brother had been watching TV when the newsflash came on. He knew it was something important, but he didn’t understand. “Somebody’s king was shot,” he told me.
There is a book called The Aspirin Age, a collection of surprising essays from contemporary writers between 1919 and 1941. One of them is called “Konklave in Kokomo” by Robert Coughlan, about how open the klan was in Indiana in the 1920s, and their speeches against Jews and Catholics as well as other races. Their parades were like happy, 4th of July events. It’s surreal. The whole book is a series of amazing historical slices.
LikeLike
D’s recall reminded me of this… I hope this doesn’t offend anyone, but a friend told me about when she made a trip from where she lived in ND to Chicago with her daughter, who was about 4 yrs. old at the time, (late 60’s or early 70’s.) They went shopping and the little girl saw the first Negro she had ever seen…a woman. The girl said, (loud enough for all around to hear,) “Momma, look at that nice chocolate lady!” My friend was so embarrassed, and quickly explained that there were no people of color in Bismarck, but the woman took it very well, with a big smile, and said she would take it as a compliment.
Ah, the innocence of sweet little children!
LikeLike
I was just thinking today what an amazing time we are in this moment in history. Another great era, similar to the time of Reverend King, where we are growing and changing and reaching unseen heights in terms of strides of women and underrepresented minorities. I’m speaking of our Democratic primaries and the incredible options before us. I am in awe, happy and worried all at once. I want to hope and believe that this country can make history. I believe it right now.
LikeLike