RACE RELATIONS 101 chapter 23

I was in eighth grade before I really began to understand racial issues in Omaha. I was not very culturally aware. I did not read news in the paper. If it was not on the funny pages, I never saw it. We did not have a TV until I was in high school. The only thing I listened to on the radio was the Long Ranger, The Shadow Knows and Fiber McGee and Molly. Dad and mom did not discuss world news, at least not when I was around. What I did know came from school. The only thing race related I had ever heard or may remember is that Abraham Lincoln fought against Nebraska becoming a slavery state.

That last year of elementary school I began to notice things and hear things and questions were forming. Austin and I looked at each other with different eyes.

I had seen “White” and “Colored” restrooms and drinking fountains in JC Penny’s and Brandies. But now I was wondering why. I didn’t know anything about the inside of the restrooms, but the fountains where very different in style and quality. It looked like the colored fountains were picked up from Frank the junk collector. We shared the same restrooms and drinking fountain at school and never gave it a second thought. I had ridden the bus with Austin and Robert and we sat in the back of the bus. The driver kept looking at me through his mirror. I wondered why and Robert had to explain it to me. Apparently I should have been sitting closer to the front. But I wanted to sit with my friends and I was blind enough to think they preferred to sit in the back. The bus was only one third full. There were plenty of seats. The bus-seating plan should have jumped at me as we had just experienced for friends rejection at the roller rink.

Earlier I had been invited to Austin’s birthday party and was the only white person there. Five were from Webster school, so I knew some of the kids. His other friends seemed to be looking at me out of the corner of their eye, or I was imagining things. I could feel the stares and knew they were wondering what I was doing there. I wondered the same thing. That same year I was beginning to understand that our relationship was not culturally accepted. I could also feel that he and I were beginning to pull apart. It was a strange feeling. It was a huge loss and it was going to get worse.

I had heard my brother-in-law, Harry, spew his bigotry venom on more occasions than I care to remember and I hated him for it. I always took it personally and could not imagine the pain the objects of this verbal abuse were feeling. He was a crude, rude and nasty man who physically abused his wife and children. I knew there was something seriously wrong with him. I was only beginning to connect it with the culture and his southern heritage.

It was in this last school year that Austin and I were chased away by an angry white man for what appeared to be him beating me up. We were playing fake fighting. It was this year that Lillian and my photo appeared in the paper because a black and white couple was square dancing at a city competition.

Everything was coming together in my mind and I was not good. It was frightening. It was painful. I can’t say I was angry. I wish I could say that now. Previously I had considered the various black and white issues faced with my friends to be strange, maybe even funny. I had missed the seriousness and pain they were experiencing. If they were subjected to that at school I never saw it. They were not seated at the back of the classroom, but alphabetically with the rest of us. They were not segregated at recess or any activities. If the world was really trying to maintain a separation of the races they were messing up big time at school. There was equality in my grade school; at least I always thought there was. I know of nothing that would say it differently, but then I wasn’t “Colored.”

If anyone were aware that the colored kids situation was different it would have been Robert.  He wasn’t extremely vocal but he would say little things. He complained about the grades that he and the others received. He complained about the places in the city where he could not go. I didn’t know there were so many places. There should not have been any. He complained about anything that kept the races separate or belittled them and most especially about being sent to the back of the bus.

I was beginning to understand slavery and the after affect still going on these one hundred years later. It was in high school when slavery was discussed in American history. Civil Rights never came up. Now I was learning of the large issue it was right here in Omaha, right around me, right under my nose, right here supposedly in these northern slavery free Yankee states. We were just as bigoted as the south in some more subtle was and others just as blatantly. In the next four years the issues would become more demonstrative as Martin Luther King’s voice was being heard and violence was increasing breaking out across the south.

Four years later I was at work in Kinney Shoe Store when a fellow employee came back from lunch and reported of a sit-in at the Woolworths lunch counter. I had the next break and ran the block up to see what was happening. All the lunch counter stools were occupied by Negros. The wait staff was standing behind the counter doing nothing. A call had been placed to the manager on his day off. He was on his way. Police were inside standing behind the stools and holding back the white crowd pushing and shouting in behind them. A minor skirmish broke out when one white man tried to shove a Negro off his stool. Police hauled the white man out. There was very clear tension.

When the manager arrived, he looked at the situation and diffused it quickly when he told the cooks and wait staff to serve these customers.

My high school years were filled with conflict and fights. Austin and I lost track of one another. While we both attended Central High, we never once had classes together. I never even saw him again at that 2000 member student body.

My life was changing rapidly and drastically. I was leaving the happy, joyful fun filled days of childhood, at least for me. Fear began to settle in. The future was increasing less secure. Fear was hovering over my little world.

THE DAY I WAS A HERO chapter 22

I was neither good nor bad at most sports. I was somewhere in the middle except in softball. Hardball was not allowed on the school field, as the field was too close to the windows. Several of the boys always tried to aim for the windows with a small degree of success. I was acceptable at running bases, and could hit occasionally, but I was pathetic at throwing and catching. I was always picked near the last. That does nothing for ones ego.

I somewhat enjoyed basketball and developed a reasonable right hook shot but had a bear of a time with anything else. It didn’t help that our gravel covered “court” (I use the term loosely) sloped from left to right and rain had developed the Grand Canyon on an angel through the eastern key. I twisted my ankle on more than one occasion in the rut. I wasn’t the only one.

The school did not have a gym. It had two rooms in the basement that were more like kids playrooms. The smaller one was a closed room where square dancing was taught and games were played. The larger room had no wall to the hall and had quite a few mats used primarily for tumbling. I loved tumbling. I learned how to take a fall, dive over people and roll. Wrestling wasn’t taught, but when the opportunity presented itself, the guys wrestled.

The ceiling throughout the basement was only 8’. Throwing anything was a challenge. Dodge ball was also popular among the guys. Girls hated it and usually sat it out. I can understand why it was eventually banned. That sucker could really sting at times. Mom didn’t like it when I came home with red welts on my body. She never understood that was a sign of valor.

My favorite sport was football. Creighton University was only three blocks east and had a beautiful stadium. They no longer had a football team, but some high schools used the field at times. There was one place slightly obscured by shrubbery where the fence had been torn away from a pole and it was easy to climb through. A lot of neighborhood kids played football there. In fact, the local junk collector organized a team to compete in the city wide midget league. Things were pretty loose in the 50’s and there were no permission slips to take home. Maybe there should have been, but Frank never got around to preparing any.

Our neighborhood was a very eclectic mix of races and nationalities. Creighton sat on the southeastern edge of the neighborhood and Frank had his junkyard right across Burt from the stadium. No one that I know of ever had permission for us to practice there, but we did and we all crawled through the fence.

We all played on both sides of the line. We just barely had enough guys to play at all. If anyone missed we were down a player or two. That didn’t seem to matter we played anyway. I played defensive tackle and wide receiver. I wasn’t very fast, but I could cut quickly and turn a defender around. I felt somewhat useless as a tackle. One the other hand, the only time I was ever a hero in any game, I was playing tackle.

The whole league was a mish-mash of uniforms, parts of uniforms and no uniforms. We were in the have not category. We wore Converse high tops, jeans and either white T-shirts or sweatshirts —color didn’t matter. You just had to know your team.

On the big game were playing a team out west who had helmets and shoulder pads. The big play came when we had them backed to the goal line and they were about to kick it out of there. I rushed in and stopped the ball with my nose. I fell to the ground on top of the football. It wasn’t planned, It just happened. My team was yelling and cheering and patting me on the back. I was a hero. But this hero was lying on the ground with a bloody nose and tears running down his face that he was desperately trying to hold back. I did not want to get up. I didn’t want anyone to see my face. The game must go on. I was eventually pulled off the ground and dragged to the sideline where I given a few hankies to stop the bleeding. Coach let me sit out the kickoff, which gave me the opportunity to let the tears flow briefly. His only comment to me was, “Buck up. You scored a touchdown.” Yeah for me! I tried to be happy and excited like the others, but I was already wondering what mom was going to say when I came home with a puffy nose and blood down my dirty white T-shirt.

I told her the truth. I got hit in the nose by a football. I didn’t exactly share I had been out west in a midget league game, or that Frank drove us there in the back of his partially empty junk truck. I’m sure she thought it was just a bunch of neighborhood kids playing. It certainly was. 

FAMILY TOGETHERNESS chapter 21

Mom’s house was just too small for the whole family to gather. Technically, the whole family never did get together. Harlow, his wife and three kids never came to grandma’s house once they left Omaha.

Harlow came with the family when they all move here in 1941. He was nineteen. He was hoping to get a job. That never happened and he hated it here so much he stole dad’s model “T” drove it back to Kansas, sold it for money to live on and reconnected with his high school sweetheart. I don’t know why, but dad never tried to collect the money nor was he upset for long about the stolen car. He might have had a premonition that Harlow would go back anyway he could.

But that wasn’t the worst that happened. Harlow married his special girl and three years later was still having a hard time holding down a job. Mom wrote him and told him she had found him a job and a place to live. So Harlow moved his new bride to Nebraska. Well, the place to live was with the family sharing their two-bedroom apartment with five siblings and another on the way. They were given the living room. And there was no job, just a few places she suggested he apply. He was furious. They had used all their money moving up so had no choice but to stay for awhile. He eventually found some work, but stated he was returning to Kansas as soon as they had the money and would never come back to Nebraska again. As much as I remember, he never did come back.

So when the family got together it was the other four older siblings, their spouses, ten grand kids, Dean and myself. Naturally there was an adult table and kids table. When the ten older ones including mom and dad sat down, all doorways but the front door were blocked. The grand kids myself and Dean was in the kitchen and that table nearly touched all four walls. Mom was the only one who could move. She sat on a chair in the doorway to the kitchen. It did not matter how crowded it was she was in her glory. She wanted all her kids home as often as she could get them to come and she tried to talk all of them out of moving from the area when some did move. Eventually all of them left town.

David moved for work to southern Nebraska along the Kansas border, met a wonder woman there and stayed. Doris and family lived on the south side of town, which was far enough away to be another city. At least it felt like that to me. She was even more country and farmer than dad. She had her garden, a little Billy Goat for milk and chickens for eggs. I was closest to her of all the older kids. She often had me come and spend Friday night at her place and then sent me to gather the eggs Saturday morning. If it was just picking up the eggs, that might not have been so bad. I got so digging under a chicken for her eggs didn’t bother me too much, but I hated being attacked by the rooster. He always tried to peck me to death. When the goat saw that I was going down he joined the fray by trying to butt me. Frankly I think she just sent me out there so she would have a good laugh. I know I looked a fright.

Dorlis and Gladys both married Air Force men. They got shipped around a lot. When Dorlis’ husband finished with the military they settled in Florida. He was a southern boy and the biggest bigot I had ever met. He was vicious and never saw a black person that he didn’t have something nasty to say even if it meant shouting out his car window. Dad and I were especially glad to see them move. Gladys eventually settled the closest to home. She was a very responsible person and worried about them aging and potentially needing help. Mom and dad moved out of Omaha before that need became a reality.

There were a few years we all jammed into the house on Webster Street. Since two of the brother-in-laws smoked, they moved outside right after the meal and stayed there until it was time to leave. It was terrible if the weather kept the grandkids in. The adults were constantly telling them to quiet down. Of course, they never did. The adults had no conversation on those times, but mom was happy. Everyone was there.

I can’t even remember who didn’t like whom. It changed all the time, but there were always some on the outs with others. Every gathering was full of tension. Dad sat quietly and endured, but went to bed as soon as everyone left. He was worn out. I was still young enough to enjoy the grand kids some of whom were only a few years younger than I. I had babysat every one of them at one time on another. As I got older I had a growing awareness of the struggle being together was.

The women always went to the kitchen to clean up, David, dad and Doris husband sat in the living room and the Air Force boys sat on the swing on the front porch. There was never any excitement about the family getting together. I was treated as a grandchild by my siblings — which only makes sense. I was closer in age to them than my own brother and sisters. We had nothing in common.

Only mom seemed to never notice that there was no room to accommodate us all. She would argue when they wanted to leave for the day. “Can’t you stay a little longer”?" She didn’t seem to understand that her clinginess was driving them away.

When my time came to leave, I was anxious to go. Mom was convinced that I would be lonely and miss home and move back in no time. I did return for two summer breaks, but only for visits there after. I had the same need the others all had. I needed to get away. There was no family togetherness, and nothing every changed. I was not lonely. Unfortunately, I didn’t really miss home at all.

MUST I chapter 20

(Parenthetically speaking…

It’s the first day of spring. Yeah. At least the sun was out — briefly. Now that I am up and mobile it appears to be clouding over. That’s the way it goes in the northwest. I suspect the snow is finished — I hope.)

      Now what do I do? There was so much happiness through the church when I publicly prayed the sinner’s prayer that I was sure my troubles would be over. My church pressured me to get with the program and get saved. Now they wanted me to be filled with the Holy Spirit. In my church, that meant speaking in tongues. I was so confused that I wasn’t even sure I was saved. Nothing had changed. Well there was one thing. I was becoming more nervous and fearful especially around things of faith.

Now I was confused. Confusion came either from my desire to be filled with the spirit or my desire to please the people of the church, especially my dad. Dad never put pressure on me. He never said a thing about it. If he cared, he kept his mouth closed. That did not seem to apply to others in the church.

Every service included a call to come forward, and pray for salvation and/or to be filled with the Spirit. I had seen people do this dozens of times. After several months of getting the evil eye and verbal encouragement I started going forward each week to pray. Just doing this made me wonder if maybe I was sincere about the sinner’s prayer, if maybe God had come into my life. How was I to be sure? After many weeks of going forward it was clear people were getting very concerned about me and were gathering around me putting their hands all over me and crying to God to give me the gift of tongues. I hated every moment of it. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted them to keep their hands off me.

I had thought about this for quite some time. Maybe I could fake the gift; maybe I should try to fake the gift. After all, it wasn’t like I didn’t already know plenty of phrases from a dozen or more people I would hear nearly every week. Also, I was a little mimic. Of course, if I did fake it, I would have to select parts of my dad’s tongue prayers. I knew them the best. Besides, he never came to the front to lay hands on me — it was just other people. Then there was sister Withrow. Her prayers were worth considering.  She spoke in tongues every Sunday and was heard about all other voices. I was a little concerned that everyone knew some of her comments, but I began to pick and choose phrases I could blend together with dads and others. I was going to do this. I felt like I had to do this. I didn’t want to do this.

I was a nervous wreck the Sunday I decided, “to be filled.” My palms were sweaty and sweat was rolling off my forehead. It was so bad that I almost decided not to do it, but I decided that it was more important to stop what I considered to be harassment — please stop. The moment came and I went forward, knelled down and went over and over what I planned to say and then began to let it out softly, but not slowly. As people near me heard the wonderful sounds flowing from me they began to gather around. I figured my performance was going well so picked up the volume a little and the crowd grew. I was careful not to let it go on too long lest I stumble. As I quieted down the rejoicing began in serious and the groups praise in tongues more enthusiastic. When the opportunity permitted, I stood up to return the pew, but had to deal with the hugs and handshaking first. I felt like that was emotionally painful, but only part of the price I had to pay to end the demands.

It worked. There were no more demands that I do anything. The evil eyes stopped. The comment ceased. I went back to the way things were before I prayed the sinner’s prayer. The biggest problem was that I began to hate the church. I no longer had any interest attending church. I went, because I “still lived in my father’s house” and had to. But I no longer listened. I no longer seemed to care. I mentally mocked what was happening. I laughed to myself at the things I considered ridiculous or silly, especially the people.  Were they all hypocrites? I was comparing others things I knew about them to their behavior in church. I was emotionally demanding that they be perfect. The more I felt they had fallen short, the more I wanted out of church.

While my actions did not change and I played the good boy to those around me, I began to be bitter. I dreamed about what I could be doing if not forced to sit in church. I was sure my older siblings had the right idea. I wondered when they each had the courage to escape. They were all married with children now and only Doris went to church. I figured she had to. Her father-in-law was the preacher.

As for me, I became unsure about God. Was He really there? Did He really care? Was I part of the group he loved? I didn’t know. Why did “His people” seem so demanding and cruel? At least, that was how I saw it.

I wanted to know God. I wanted Him to know me. But the process seemed to be complicated. If people were really converted, how did it happen? Maybe someday…