They tried to recruit me again the other day. They are white supremacists, although they never use that term. They usually portray themselves as “white rights” groups, a counterbalance to all the advocates who, they argue, dictate to the 90% of whites who aren’t rich or in power. Using tactics ripped right out of the liberal manual, they stand on the bodies of victims to make their point. The recruiters themselves usually have some “justification” for their hatred, usually a relative who was beaten, killed or raped by someone of a different color or religion. In this case, my recruiter was using a local white girl found dead in a vacant house on the north end of Flint. Although her murderer has yet to be caught, the fact that there is hardly one white person living in that area seemed proof enough to him. He then handed me literature filled with attacks on whites by blacks unreported or underreported by the media, as more proof of how prevalent these acts are. The reason, I think, that they target me, is because of my fairly well known past with blacks. It’s fair to say I’ve had more than my fair share of bad experiences at the hands of black people, and I guess they assume that I must harbor a lot of hatred toward them. They are, as usual, wrong.
So you’ll better understand, let me tell you why they think they have a chance with me, and why they don’t.
I’ll skip right to the part where it all starts going wrong. In the 6th grade at Merrill Elementary on the north end of Flint, I was an Honor Roll student with a future so bright, as they say, I had to wear shades. I was a straight “A” student, a draftee into the Walker School for the Academically Gifted, an accomplished artist ( I’d already won a scholarship) and the youngest person ever to enter the DeWaters Art School. I had stayed home from school that day, although I don’t remember why, when my mother lept to her feet with a muttered “Oh my God!” Ann, our next door neighbor, and my one time babysitter, was walking toward her house naked, but for shreds of clothes, bleeding vaginally. I only caught a glimpse as my mom shut the drapes and demanded that I stay put. But what I saw was horrifying. She was beaten bloody and crying hysterically, her parents were rushing to her aid with a blanket. The next day I found out that she had been beaten by black girls and violated with a stick at Emerson Jr. High, the school I would be attending the following year. Her crime to have deserved such treatment? She wouldn’t go out with a black guy. Their house went up for sale the next day. I never saw Ann again.
The very word “Emerson” made my stomach clench with fear. It still does. It was the worst school in Flint. With a black population that hovered around 90%, every white kid I knew had some horror story they had heard of beatings, rapes, and teachers who either enjoyed watching white people suffer, or were afraid to speak up. Both my older brothers were already there, and from what they told me it was even worse than they had heard. They gave me advice such as; don’t use the bathrooms, hide your money in your shoes, never show fear, and always be aware. All my neighborhood friends were going to Holy Redeemer, a private Catholic school my single mom could not afford. I would be alone.
Walking into Emerson that first day was like walking through Alice’s looking glass into another world. It was way louder than my old school and every face seemed hostile. I damn near threw up. The only bright spot was that 2 black kids from my old school, Leo and Leon would be there too. Leo and Leon were 2 of 5 black kids in my whole school. I had befriended them early on, they played 1st base and catcher on my baseball team (we organized our own) and athough I hadn’t seen them since mid-summer, I was sure they would look out for me. I was wrong.
I bumped into them in the hall but they were distant and seemed mad at me, I totally didn’t understand. I had been to their house, met their family, and defended them on more than one ocassion. What the hell was going on? About the second week, a group of 10 or 12 black kids followed me out of school and began tormenting me, suddenly one of them sucker-punched me in face. I turned and ran as fast as I could with them chasing me, throwing rocks and insults. As I turned to look back, I saw Leo and Leon throwing rocks too. I was stunned. The next day I confronted Leon, he told me bitterly about how he had felt so alone in a white school, that he was with his people now, and we could no longer be friends. I didn’t understand then, and I still don’t now.
For the next 3 years I was called “honky” nearly every single day. I only used the bathroom while everyone else was in class. I hid my lunch money for which I was searched almost every day, sometimes in plain view of facualty and administration. I hung out with a dozen or so white kids that were in the same situation. We walked to and from school together for protection. I lived in fear every minute I was there and started using drugs to escape.
Two incidents stand out in my mind as being above the normal (for us) harrassment. The first one occured in gym class, which was nothing more than an hour of basketball followed by manditory community showering. Basketball was bad enough by itself, you were shoved to the floor, tripped, and sucker-punched. If a fight broke out, you were not allowed to win. If you got on top, someone would kick you off. But it was showering that we white kids feared the most. Towels were twisted and dunked in water to use as whips to snap your backside or front. By the end of showering all of us would have welts covering our bodies. Our gym teacher (who oddly enough was white but talked like he was black) saw this as good fun.
One day two white kids, who I’ll spare the embarrassment of naming, for some reason had red areas around their anus’. Soon one of the black kids noticed, and they began tormenting them as being gay. A couple of the more aggressive black kids grabbed them by their hair and drug them into a isolated part of the locker room while others stood guard. I was told to mind my own business if I didn’t want the same treatment. From my position I could hear their muffled pleas and tears. It gave me nightmares for years.
The second incident occured in my last year at Emerson. By this time I had pretty much established myself. I boxed at Berston Field House for a short time and had gotten quite good at defending myself. I had made some black friends and with my connections in the drug trade, had several customers who had an interest in keeping me safe and them supplied with weed. Life was a little better. Martin Luther King’s assassination day, April 4th, had become a day of racial tension in our school, and most white kids simply didn’t go that day rather than risk problems. This didn’t go unnoticed by our Assistant Principal for the Students, who may have been the most racist person I have ever met. He took great joy in having his white students see “what it feels like.” He would even punish us with what he called “slave for a day.” A day where we would work in his office doing his bidding, such as shining his shoes. (Usually that was the punishment for being caught with drugs, which he would keep). On the day before M.L.K.’s assassination day he called us all into his office one by one and warned us that if we missed April 4th again, we would all be repeating 9th Grade, a fate to us worse than death.
Everthing went pretty uneventful that day and I admit, I was surprised. I fully expected to be harrassed all day. After school, the white kids that showed up, all gathered for the walk home. Black kids would normally be in their own groups walking behind or in front of us. The fact that they were all males wasn’t immediately noticed by us. But, when they didn’t make their normal turn onto Detroit Street, we all knew something was up. When we got about halfway down one block, the front group suddenly turned and started back toward us, at the same time the back group started running up behind us, the noose had closed. By police accounts taken from neighbors who witnessed, there were about 30 to 40 people who decended on the 7 of us. It felt like a wave. I swung and fought valiantly, but there were simply too many of them. Sticks, feet, and fists stuck me everywhere and I fell to the ground and assumed the fetal position. I could feel my strength fading in pain. Luckily, I had fell next to a parked car, and through kicks had managed to crawl under it. This made it hard to get at me. I bit and kicked and punched at anything that touched me, but soon they changed tactics. Picking up chunks of concrete from a rock garden, they hurled their missiles under the car. One struck me in the side, taking my breath away and lowering my arms. The next one struck me in the face, after that I don’t remember anything until one of my friends, Mike, pulled me from under the car. It was over. Apparently, some of the neighbors had come out of their houses to save me, and a police cruiser had scattered my tormentors. Two of us had to be hospitalized. I still wear those scars. I never went back to Emerson after that, even my teachers felt sorry for me and gave me a barely passing grade. I was finally out of that f***ed up excuse of a school. Drug addicted and carrying a “D” average, 9th grade would be the highest grade I completed. To say I was bitter and hated black people would have been an understatement. All my friends felt the same, we blamed all black people. Several of them went on to join white supremacist groups, which is why they know about me.
The truth is, not all black people treated me badly in Emerson. The girls in particular, sympathized with my plight, and would try to keep the black guys at bay, as much as they could without being called a “honky lover”. Some black guys would also stand up for me, at great risk themselves. The more militant blacks had no problem handing out an ass-whooping if they got too sympathetic or turned them in for their misdeeds. It took a long time, but slowly, I started remembering that not all of them participated, or approved of what happened to me.
I don’t write columns to ferment hatred, to show how terrible my life has been, or get sympathy for myself. God knows there’s enough of that. I like to think that the purpose of my pieces is to learn together, debate issues, show right from wrong, and as grandiose as it may sound, to learn to live together without so much hate. This column was written specifically to make one point. After all I’ve been through, I can’t judge all black people by what a few did to me. That’s the same mindless thinking that caused what I suffered. If I blame all of them, I justify that behavior. And that I won’t do! I blame those people who treated me badly individually for their acts, not as a group.
I won’t respond to the white supremacists and their racist logic, nor will I waste my time trying to convince black activists who put white people in a group when it fits their agenda, contrary to how they want to be treated themselves. (Actually, it’s amazing how much the two sides sound alike in their rhetoric, both aware of the others privileges, but not their own.) But I do have a question for all you people who claim to justify your racism by pointing out what a race of people have done to you, instead of what some racists individuals have done. Why is it that I, after all I’ve been through, can see the injustice in your view of the world, but you, with far less to point to individually, can not? Maybe it’s just that it’s easier for you to see the world in Black and White. Too bad, all the good colors are inbetween. H.C.
So you’ll better understand, let me tell you why they think they have a chance with me, and why they don’t.
I’ll skip right to the part where it all starts going wrong. In the 6th grade at Merrill Elementary on the north end of Flint, I was an Honor Roll student with a future so bright, as they say, I had to wear shades. I was a straight “A” student, a draftee into the Walker School for the Academically Gifted, an accomplished artist ( I’d already won a scholarship) and the youngest person ever to enter the DeWaters Art School. I had stayed home from school that day, although I don’t remember why, when my mother lept to her feet with a muttered “Oh my God!” Ann, our next door neighbor, and my one time babysitter, was walking toward her house naked, but for shreds of clothes, bleeding vaginally. I only caught a glimpse as my mom shut the drapes and demanded that I stay put. But what I saw was horrifying. She was beaten bloody and crying hysterically, her parents were rushing to her aid with a blanket. The next day I found out that she had been beaten by black girls and violated with a stick at Emerson Jr. High, the school I would be attending the following year. Her crime to have deserved such treatment? She wouldn’t go out with a black guy. Their house went up for sale the next day. I never saw Ann again.
The very word “Emerson” made my stomach clench with fear. It still does. It was the worst school in Flint. With a black population that hovered around 90%, every white kid I knew had some horror story they had heard of beatings, rapes, and teachers who either enjoyed watching white people suffer, or were afraid to speak up. Both my older brothers were already there, and from what they told me it was even worse than they had heard. They gave me advice such as; don’t use the bathrooms, hide your money in your shoes, never show fear, and always be aware. All my neighborhood friends were going to Holy Redeemer, a private Catholic school my single mom could not afford. I would be alone.
Walking into Emerson that first day was like walking through Alice’s looking glass into another world. It was way louder than my old school and every face seemed hostile. I damn near threw up. The only bright spot was that 2 black kids from my old school, Leo and Leon would be there too. Leo and Leon were 2 of 5 black kids in my whole school. I had befriended them early on, they played 1st base and catcher on my baseball team (we organized our own) and athough I hadn’t seen them since mid-summer, I was sure they would look out for me. I was wrong.
I bumped into them in the hall but they were distant and seemed mad at me, I totally didn’t understand. I had been to their house, met their family, and defended them on more than one ocassion. What the hell was going on? About the second week, a group of 10 or 12 black kids followed me out of school and began tormenting me, suddenly one of them sucker-punched me in face. I turned and ran as fast as I could with them chasing me, throwing rocks and insults. As I turned to look back, I saw Leo and Leon throwing rocks too. I was stunned. The next day I confronted Leon, he told me bitterly about how he had felt so alone in a white school, that he was with his people now, and we could no longer be friends. I didn’t understand then, and I still don’t now.
For the next 3 years I was called “honky” nearly every single day. I only used the bathroom while everyone else was in class. I hid my lunch money for which I was searched almost every day, sometimes in plain view of facualty and administration. I hung out with a dozen or so white kids that were in the same situation. We walked to and from school together for protection. I lived in fear every minute I was there and started using drugs to escape.
Two incidents stand out in my mind as being above the normal (for us) harrassment. The first one occured in gym class, which was nothing more than an hour of basketball followed by manditory community showering. Basketball was bad enough by itself, you were shoved to the floor, tripped, and sucker-punched. If a fight broke out, you were not allowed to win. If you got on top, someone would kick you off. But it was showering that we white kids feared the most. Towels were twisted and dunked in water to use as whips to snap your backside or front. By the end of showering all of us would have welts covering our bodies. Our gym teacher (who oddly enough was white but talked like he was black) saw this as good fun.
One day two white kids, who I’ll spare the embarrassment of naming, for some reason had red areas around their anus’. Soon one of the black kids noticed, and they began tormenting them as being gay. A couple of the more aggressive black kids grabbed them by their hair and drug them into a isolated part of the locker room while others stood guard. I was told to mind my own business if I didn’t want the same treatment. From my position I could hear their muffled pleas and tears. It gave me nightmares for years.
The second incident occured in my last year at Emerson. By this time I had pretty much established myself. I boxed at Berston Field House for a short time and had gotten quite good at defending myself. I had made some black friends and with my connections in the drug trade, had several customers who had an interest in keeping me safe and them supplied with weed. Life was a little better. Martin Luther King’s assassination day, April 4th, had become a day of racial tension in our school, and most white kids simply didn’t go that day rather than risk problems. This didn’t go unnoticed by our Assistant Principal for the Students, who may have been the most racist person I have ever met. He took great joy in having his white students see “what it feels like.” He would even punish us with what he called “slave for a day.” A day where we would work in his office doing his bidding, such as shining his shoes. (Usually that was the punishment for being caught with drugs, which he would keep). On the day before M.L.K.’s assassination day he called us all into his office one by one and warned us that if we missed April 4th again, we would all be repeating 9th Grade, a fate to us worse than death.
Everthing went pretty uneventful that day and I admit, I was surprised. I fully expected to be harrassed all day. After school, the white kids that showed up, all gathered for the walk home. Black kids would normally be in their own groups walking behind or in front of us. The fact that they were all males wasn’t immediately noticed by us. But, when they didn’t make their normal turn onto Detroit Street, we all knew something was up. When we got about halfway down one block, the front group suddenly turned and started back toward us, at the same time the back group started running up behind us, the noose had closed. By police accounts taken from neighbors who witnessed, there were about 30 to 40 people who decended on the 7 of us. It felt like a wave. I swung and fought valiantly, but there were simply too many of them. Sticks, feet, and fists stuck me everywhere and I fell to the ground and assumed the fetal position. I could feel my strength fading in pain. Luckily, I had fell next to a parked car, and through kicks had managed to crawl under it. This made it hard to get at me. I bit and kicked and punched at anything that touched me, but soon they changed tactics. Picking up chunks of concrete from a rock garden, they hurled their missiles under the car. One struck me in the side, taking my breath away and lowering my arms. The next one struck me in the face, after that I don’t remember anything until one of my friends, Mike, pulled me from under the car. It was over. Apparently, some of the neighbors had come out of their houses to save me, and a police cruiser had scattered my tormentors. Two of us had to be hospitalized. I still wear those scars. I never went back to Emerson after that, even my teachers felt sorry for me and gave me a barely passing grade. I was finally out of that f***ed up excuse of a school. Drug addicted and carrying a “D” average, 9th grade would be the highest grade I completed. To say I was bitter and hated black people would have been an understatement. All my friends felt the same, we blamed all black people. Several of them went on to join white supremacist groups, which is why they know about me.
The truth is, not all black people treated me badly in Emerson. The girls in particular, sympathized with my plight, and would try to keep the black guys at bay, as much as they could without being called a “honky lover”. Some black guys would also stand up for me, at great risk themselves. The more militant blacks had no problem handing out an ass-whooping if they got too sympathetic or turned them in for their misdeeds. It took a long time, but slowly, I started remembering that not all of them participated, or approved of what happened to me.
I don’t write columns to ferment hatred, to show how terrible my life has been, or get sympathy for myself. God knows there’s enough of that. I like to think that the purpose of my pieces is to learn together, debate issues, show right from wrong, and as grandiose as it may sound, to learn to live together without so much hate. This column was written specifically to make one point. After all I’ve been through, I can’t judge all black people by what a few did to me. That’s the same mindless thinking that caused what I suffered. If I blame all of them, I justify that behavior. And that I won’t do! I blame those people who treated me badly individually for their acts, not as a group.
I won’t respond to the white supremacists and their racist logic, nor will I waste my time trying to convince black activists who put white people in a group when it fits their agenda, contrary to how they want to be treated themselves. (Actually, it’s amazing how much the two sides sound alike in their rhetoric, both aware of the others privileges, but not their own.) But I do have a question for all you people who claim to justify your racism by pointing out what a race of people have done to you, instead of what some racists individuals have done. Why is it that I, after all I’ve been through, can see the injustice in your view of the world, but you, with far less to point to individually, can not? Maybe it’s just that it’s easier for you to see the world in Black and White. Too bad, all the good colors are inbetween. H.C.
4 comments:
Very stirring piece. I do have to say you had it worse than I did when it came to the minority experience, I think racial tensions may have become more passive aggressive (mostly).
Although, the only color(s) between white and black are grey... ;)
Hey Will,
I'd be happy if the whole world thought more in gray. But I get your point, I never was good at the color wheel. To be fair, the black people of that time also had it worse. Poverty then really meant Poverty. One of by best black friends back then, Maurice, was so poor even the other black kids picked on him. Which is why I think he hung out with me. Maurice went on to become a doctor, proving that if you don't let anything stand in your way you can be anything you want to be. My big point in this piece is individual responsibility. I used to honestly hate black people for what "they" did to me. I've grown. I now understand that it's assholes I should be hating, regardless of color. (there's lot's of them of all hues, as we all know.) Thanks for commenting as always my friend. I really enjoyed your last piece.
Of all the outstanding (albeit wrong...just kidding) posts, this is my favorite. It sums up my assessment of America.
Except for maybe the 10% of the lofty folks in this country, no one can deny that the system has failed us. When systematic problems exist, people on the lower end can't succeed with any sense of certainty. The poor find themselves going down a path of failure; despite their best efforts. Essentially, their collective fates are fed to a system that is flawed, unbalanced, and inequitable.
There is no justice left...
Hey Dre,
WRONG?? I'm never wrong. O.K. maybe misinformed. Actually I debated on whether or not to rerun this piece, it's painful to read and I worry that it might ferment the wrong emotion. I just hope that everyone takes in the right message on it; that racism is wrong no matter how well you can justify it. Race, Race, Race, it's one of my least favorite topics. I would have hoped we'd be passed it by now. Sometimes it feels like the government wants us to think we have to fight over a small piece of the pie while they (the rich) take the rest. We will have a much stronger voice united on the things that are important to all of us, like safe streets, heath care, education. But that's what they fear. It shouldn't matter to anyone when a kid gets gunned down, or dies untreated of a disease, whether he was black or white. Thanks for the compliment, it makes me feel better knowing at least someone got the point. I've only got a few more posts to go and then I'm going to get right back in the mud. There are so many things going on, (Rumsfeld, Iraq, the Democrat's version of "Weekend at Bernies") that I don't even know where to start. Thanks for commenting, got a little more time now that school's out of the way?
Post a Comment