I hadn’t planned on writing a post about race, but as I perused Facebook this morning and saw all the MLK quotes and memes. It made me think about what my experiences in the 60s and 70s, the attitudes I heard growing up, and how things changed over the years.
Remember the show “All in the Family”? That was our house – my Pop was a younger version of Archie Bunker. He also had a ridiculous chair that no one else was permitted to sit in.
When first I started school I remember picking up that he did not care for me to have friends who looked different from me. My very first school friend was a girl named Frances who was from Mexico and spoke no English. We communicated by drawing pictures and walked home from school together every day. She lived on the next block over. Pops made it clear that she was not welcome at our house and that he was glad to live on a block completely composed of people who were white like us. I remember thinking that if he got to know Frances that he would like her so much that he would love for her to live next door! It made me feel a little sick inside to know that he did not feel the same way. Mostly I felt sad for Pop – Frances was a wonderful person and he would never know that.
In 4th grade – about 1970-71 – I was asked to write a report on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I went to the encyclopedia to look him up and he wasn’t listed anywhere. Our Britannica set was from 1948, so that was understandable. I asked Pop about him – and he was not happy to discuss the subject. He spit our a string of epithets and curses in regards to Dr. King, it angered him that I would even be asked to write about King. He told me a crazy conspiracy story about a n****r who planned to fake his own death and come back from the dead on Easter. The plan went wrong and now he was a martyr. I knew I would get nothing useful from Pop.
I vaguely recall listening to him talking to a pollster on the phone about who he was planning to vote for in a presidential race – I cannot recall the year. I only recall him saying that he had no idea, now that someone had shot his choice – I have always hoped he was talking about Bobby Kennedy and not George Wallace, but to be honest I’d bet it was Wallace that inspired that reaction out of him.
In 1972 forced busing was instituted in Las Vegas to finally fully integrate public schools. Schools in African-American neighborhoods were converted to “Sixth Grade Centers” and the students in that neighborhood would be bused every year except sixth grade. White kids were only bused in sixth grade. Some committee somewhere thought this hair-brained arrangement was equitable.
My Pop was not on board with the idea either, but for other reasons. He could hide his Archie Bunker-ian tendencies by saying that busing made no sense – we lived three blocks away from a perfectly fine elementary school. Behind closed doors his language was somewhat more colorful. His solution to the problem of having his kids bused to “N-town” was to place us into a Christian school for the duration of the year that we would be bused. The irony of this was totally lost on Pops. He also declared about this time that if any black family (my words, not his) moved onto Isabelle Avenue, that the neighborhood would be ruined, unsafe, and that we would have to move.
That day finally came in the mid 80’s, long after Archie Bunker was consigned to syndication. The house across the street was purchased by a family of four relocating from Zaire. Isabelle Avenue was to be their very first address in the United States. They were totally unfamiliar with American culture, American cuisine, and American lawn maintenance. They cut down the shady elms in the front and back yards and built a huge fire pit off the back patio. The did not cut their front lawn at all – in fact they seemed to revel in it’s lush depth. I’m not talking about grass four or five inches deep, I’m talking about grass grown tall like wheat ready to harvest. It came up over their knees and was waist deep in places. The back yard did not require any mowing or harvesting because they brought in a young goat and kept it back there.
Lawn maintenance aside, they were a lovely family. Each Sunday they wore bright white clothing to church. Mom, Dad, son, and daughter looked like something out of another time as they walked to the car. They all were very polite, uncommonly so. The young boy wandered over to our yard one day when mom was picking the strawberries out of her garden. He was completely fascinated by their bright color. Mom picked a basketful and sent them home with him. Anyone who talked gardening was a friend to mom.
At Easter time they butchered the goat and roasted it in the pit in the back yard. They walked across the street to invite Mom and Pops, but they politely declined. Pops could talk a big game, but when it came down to it he could not be rude to someone face-to-face when he was sober. As summer started it became clear to the family that letting the lawn grow like a crop was not the accepted method of landscaping in their new neighborhood and the dad came across the street and knocked on our door. Pops answered and the gentleman asked, “Mr. Carter, could we kindly borrow your grass cutting machine?” Pops replied, “No.” The neighbor said, “But we need to cut the grass, it is far too long.” Pops responded, “No, you can’t use the mower because it is too tall, it will bog down the blades.” The man left and returned to his house with a puzzled look.
Pops came out of the backyard and headed across the street with the weed-eater and showed his neighbor how to use it to shorten the lawn enough to mow it. Together they weed-eated, mowed, edged, and watered the lawn. It was a thing of beauty to see the neighborhood finally fully integrated.
They lived on Isabelle Avenue for many years. They were so very kind to Pops when mom died. In the early part of this century housing values went through the roof. Houses that sold originally for twenty or thirty thousand were selling for ten times that. The family from Zaire cashed out and moved on. Pops stayed put even though I urged him to think about selling and buying some thing closer to me. Those worries about integration taking down housing values seem pretty silly now. I think America is a great country and love the idea that the first black family on the block made a killing in real estate!
In 2008, Nevada changed its presidential primary to the caucus format. My pop and his wife volunteered to be delegates to the state convention. Initially they had supported Hillary Clinton (Democrat or not this shocked me – that Archie Bunker could support even the idea of a female president) but as delegates they were obligated to cast their votes for the candidates that won from their local caucus. They were Obama delegates. Not only did they cast their delegate votes for Obama, they started volunteering for his campaign. This was the first time my Pop had ever participated in the process beyond casting a vote or accepting a yard sign. The man who wouldn’t permit me to attend a school in a black neighborhood was now supporting the man who would become our first black president!
I recall during that election that Pop spoke so excitedly about Obama and even mentioned the monumentality of electing a black president. He seemed proud of his country as he watched it come to pass. It was like I was listening to a different man.
I can’t say how this change happened, it probably was a process. I’m sure that time had a lot to do with it, but I also think a sweet family with an overgrown yard might just have been a catalyst for change.
Reblogged this on the eff stop and commented:
This is a story about my father and how his views changed over the years. There’s always hope…
Lorri…that was wonderful. You are such a rich writer…perfectly capturing the essence of change through your father. Great moments, thank you for sharing.
Thanks Janet – I really appreciate that. It’s all a work in progress. My father was a guy who could both frustrate and surprise you.
I love your stories. They are so raw and honest. This one is so indicative of a change that happened on a grander scale in our lifetime. I’ve told you before, I don’t often read posts that are over 900 or so words, but yours never disappoint.
Thanks Diana – I was remembering your comment about post length a while back when I was putting this together – I was at about 2200 words when I decided to edit 🙂 I have been telling all of these silly and ridiculous stories about my Pop and have been thinking about how to get beyond the silliness. I love the silliness, but there is more to life than the crazy times.
All your stories about your Pop, crazy times or this one here are amazing. I love the way you write, it’s not just information but you convey feeling as well, I get caught up in it. 🙂
Thanks Diana – this writing thing is a mystery to me – I’m learning as I go. I always hope that I can stop before I go too far in an emotional direction – finding the balance is a challenge.
Great story! As usual.
Thank you for sharing your great story! I think your dad is a good example of the way our country is changing, slowly but surely.
Thanks Paula – Pops was a guy who you might think could never change. If he could change, anyone can.
What a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing it. My Beloved and I live in a house that was built in California shortly after World War II. The whole neighborhood had a restriction put in the ownership ruls and paperwork that no people of Japanese descent could live in the neightborhood. While I am not of Japanese descent, most of my immediate family is Japanese American. My Beloved is fourth generation Amercian and was born in San Jose California. Two of our children are fifth generation an half-Japanese. It chilled us when we read that clause on the paperwork. We moved in anyway. Such clauses were made illegal, but remain on the paperwork.
Life goes on. Society gradually changes, as your father demonstrated.
Russ – it amazes me that those clauses still exist even if they are illegal. What we did to the Japanese Americans during the war is so shameful. Most people don’t think about segregation in the west. In the sixties even Sammy Davis Jr. could not stay in the hotels on the strip – he had to stay on the “west side”.
Great story and I’m sure not the first time that ‘working together for the common good’ has shown people how to integrate with different races and break down barriers.
Most of my friends over my life have been from a different race, country or religious background.
My school life was pretty diverse. I think my Pop’s experiences were much different growing up in a more segregated society.
Oh, Lorri, the tears are flowing. What a beautiful story.
I watched a similar transition in my Dad. I was never sure where he was until I was driving him back to his house one day, just after my sister Judy died. We saw her daughter stop and wave to us from a car around the corner from Dad’s car. Driving it was her boyfriend, now husband. A tall, incredibly handsome black guy — I knew she was bringing her boyfriend, but didn’t know he was black. I fumbled trying to figure out what to say to Dad. But Dad loved him immediately — they became great friends and it was a wonderful thing to behold. It still makes me smile.
What a special story. You know Elyse, I think that knowing someone not like from yourself makes all the difference – your father could not make generalizations about a man whom he knew – just like my father could not disparage the race of his neighbor – they were real people and real people are harder to hate than a group that you are ignorant about. My mother’s father surprised me in a similar way. His oldest son was a career Marine with 4 daughters. When his third daughter married a Marine you would have thought he would be over the moon – but because the young man was black he disowned his daughter. This was 1980. I was visiting my maternal grandfather and avoided the subject as my mother had asked. One day I was in the dairy barn with granddad and he told me about his new great grandkids – He told me that they had a black father who was a wonderful man – after all he was a Baptist AND a Democrat! He went on to say that more than any of his grandkids and great grandkids, those two brown boys looked the most like him – he pulled out the snapshots to show me. My narrow view of my southern hillbilly grandfather changed that day.
What a wonderful piece. I’m always attracted to a good story. And the pics really drew me in.
Thanks so much for giving it a read and commenting!
What an amazing post, thank you for sharing this. Honest, poignant, and captures just how much we’ve changed in one lifetime. The epitome of hope. 🙂
Thanks Mrs Fringe – this one was harder to write, I hate to think he ever thought like that. His change gives me a lot of hope.
Fantastic story and so well written, so engaging! Loved it! Judging people as a group is not usually a good idea but done so often.
Thanks – I appreciate that! It’s hard to judge a group once you make friends with someone different than yourself.
Absolutely. My racist, elitist mother did not like my best friend Sandy Esparza. I thought she was delightful.
She missed out 😦
I think my fathers generation lived during real segregation, I know I benefitted from having schoolmates and friends of all colors.
True, kids don’t think about that crap, they have to be taught. They just go by if someone is fun or not.
It’s wonderful that they do.
It’s curious how people can change. I suppose for a lot of people, anything strange can be frightening. I’m glad your dad came around to the realisation that black people are just like everyone else. Even if it took a while.
I’m glad too Val – good to hear from you!
I loved your story and the family photos, they’re just so great. I was listening to NPR the other day and heard about a study that surveyed people asking them how their attitudes and world views changed in their 20’s, 30’s, on up to their 70’s. The study found that we never stop changing, never stop growing. The rate of growth slows as you age, but doesn’t stop. I thought that was encouraging.
Thanks – I appreciate that. That’s a fascinating bit of statistics and I think it really does give us hope.
This is a great story. It seems like *most of them mellow out with age. It’s a welcomed transition. My Grandpa is making strides, but he’s still a bigot at heart, unfortunately. He’s in his 70’s, but I’m still surprised that nobody’s kicked his ass for some of the things he’s said…
Thanks Adam. You never know – I think that personal experience makes it harder to hate. Even so I believe it is still possible.
Your story gave me goosebumps. Your father was a good man… Just like that Archie Bunker dude, deep inside… Better not tell him, though… Thank you for sharing this with us.
Eric – He was a good man inside that shell. He fought that goodness almost to the end, but I knew it was there because I was witness to it – many times. Thanks for giving it a read. Your opinion means a lot.