I admit it...
I have used the "n" word.
Actually, growing up in the rural South during the desegregation era, I used it
quite a lot. I think that any white person who lived in the South during the
first 3/4 of the 20th century who denies using it is probably being less than
candid. It's ugly. It's demeaning. It's purposely hurtful. It engenders
generations of hate and distrust. And it is WRONG. But I used it and I want to
cleanse myself of my offense by taking ownership of it.
Incomprehensibly, the word was
used ON ME as much as I used it on others! You see, I am no less a product of
my circumstances than anyone else...
I was a bookish, tall white
boy in a newly desegregated school system (1966-1974)) who possessed a modest amount
of talent at playing basketball (mostly defensive) in rural north Georgia. My
teammates were as different from me as they could possibly be: varying heights
and ages, extraordinarily talented in basketball (especially on offense), not
too great in the classroom and all were black. The fact that James Strickland,
Chris Byrd, Dwight Thomas, Ronnie Jennings and I became a team is really a
little mystifying, even to me. But we were the starting 5 players in our 7th
and 8th grade years at Canton Elementary and friendships formed. Recently, I've
learned that some of those teammate friendships still endure, despite the years
and a formidable set of circumstances that separate us. As in all friendships,
some are closer than others.
I played center. What a
spectacle we must have been on the court! Chris and Ronnie were guards, Dwight
and James were forwards as we played 2-1-2 defense (we occasionally played
man-to-man but it was much less colorful). Our offense was more "run and gun".
Together, we were the best grade school team in the county and region. My
forte was rebounding, blocking shots, and outlet passes. I very infrequently
visited "our end" because our offense tended to "ricochet" off of our defense.
I was the biggest, slowest, least shooting-talented of the five. My presence
on offense was usually just not needed!
Off court, I felt "tolerated"
by Dwight who was our most prodigious talent, by far. His older brother had
recently signed to play at basketball powerhouse Marquette and it appeared that
Dwight was destined to follow in his footsteps. Ronnie was our MTV star.
Always conscious of his look with a comb standing up in his "natural", he was
always singing or humming. Ronnie's energy level reminded me of a hummingbird,
always busy. James usually had a scowl on his face. It took me a while but I
finally figured out that if he was angry, it wasn't me that made him that way.
Eventually, I decided that he was angry at the world but, at that tender age, I
couldn't figure out why, exactly. Oh, how I've learned about that kind of
anger! Then, there was Chris...
Chris Byrd is one of the most
affable, easy-going, natural people that one will ever meet. He had an easy
smile and a ready laugh that made everybody happy to be around him. He and his
girlfriend, Cindy, had recently had a baby (in 8th grade) that they named
Shatasha Terease. Although I never met her, her photograph revealed that she was the cutest possible combination of both parents. Chris was a proud but unprepared father, as I guess most 8th graders would be. But he was a prince among young
men!
When we were together, the "n"
word floated around like dandelion blossoms, blown by the wind. "N" could mean
any of us, including me, or all of us, collectively. "What's wrong with you,
"N"? You couldn't see that outlet pass comin'?" " 'N', you got to get on those
rebounds! Step it up!" Hearing the "n" word when we were together became as
natural as my mother asking, "Tony, please pass the butter" at the dinner table.
I distinctly remember Chris telling me one time, "T, you are an honorary 'n'."
I was thrilled! I was thrilled to be included in something so special, so
unique, so important as our little basketball dynasty. For a naive while,
that's what I thought "n" was all about.
Our playing success allowed us
the opportunity to travel outside our home county, Cherokee, to play in
invitational tournaments in the region. Our winning streak continued but there
was one tournament that will always stand out in my mind. It required our team
to travel to the county seat of neighboring Forsyth County in Cumming. This was
a problem. Black people were notoriously unwelcome in Forsyth County (Oprah
Winfrey visited there in the 80s and broadcast one of her most famous episodes
from Cumming on the subject of racism.) To be sure, "unwelcome" is the epitome
of understatement for how black people felt about Forsyth County. It's history
could have come straight from the pages of Isabel Wilkerson's THE WARMTH OF
OTHER SUNS. None of my teammates made the trip. We won our game but not by our
customary margin and NOTHING about that trip felt right. When I asked my
parents why Dwight, Chris, James and Ronnie refused to go, they told me a truth
so ugly that I refuse to repeat it!
I was not raised in a racist
home, against all odds. The "n" word used by my family was "negro" which, at
the time, was polite and accepted. The use of that word demonstrated to all
that my family was progressive and forward-thinking. I just didn't realize that
then. I have no evidence that my home, my family were treated differently by
white friends because we were this way but we were NOT the norm! And a visiting
friend or distant family member was always dragging the "old South norm" to the
door with them when they came.
The family who lived next
door, for example, had their children attend a different school because of their
views on "mixing." Although I had grown up with their two children of
approximately the same age as my brother and me, the fact that we attended
different schools was mostly just a curiosity to me. Their father's racist
views were "out and proud". This man was one of those "bigger-than-life", John
Wayne, man's-man types who my brother and I more-or-less idolized. In
adulthood, I know that his views were predicated on his fear and ignorance. He
most certainly passed those views to his progeny, my friends.
To some degree, I guess that I
was somewhat protective of my "basketball life" and teammates. They validated
me, made me part of something important, something bigger than myself and it
helped me to minimize the emerging "other" difference that made me unique in all
the wrong, most unacceptable ways. Although I was keenly aware that race was
not the only thing that made me distinct from my teammates and all the other
boys my age, I couldn't put my finger on what that other distinction was,
exactly. I would certainly not have recognized that distinction's name
(actually several, not-so-nice names), although I had heard them before: queer,
fag, gay, homo. I will repeat here what I recall having heard about "those"
people: "Queers are like snakes. The only good ones are dead ones." I
participated in the condemnation and persecution of other boys and men who were
more effeminate than our strict Southern code deemed acceptable. Isn't it
ironic that I was much more contemptuous of gay people than of black
people?
Is it possible that I
successfully hid my homosexuality from my teammates and others? I can't really
say. Chris, Ronnie, James and Dwight certainly never made an issue of it, if
they were aware. And they were VERY sexually aware: much moreso than the other
kids in school.
When we all made the "leap" to
high school at the age of 14, our team was disbanded. As freshmen, we were
stratified by our individual talent levels and cast into new roles on the
Varsity team (Dwight and Chris), B-team (James) and 9th grade team (me). I
don't recall what happened to Ronnie but he had other issues. It wasn't JUST
about the basketball. Dwight's star burned bright, garnered him much attention
and then fizzled. The increasing rigor of high school academics soon
overwhelmed my former teammates. I traversed the next 4 years successfully in
academics but my interest in basketball waned as did the notoriety I had enjoyed
as part of "the team" which no longer was. The teen years are tough on
everyone, us included. We lost touch. I don't recall hearing of or from Dwight
or Ronnie again in the years since. I wonder...
Almost 30 years later, I ran
into Chris at a hometown funeral home upon the death of my great aunt. He too
had come there to memorialize a fallen relative and we recognized each other
immediately. The circumstances were so strange, so other-worldly. Both of us
were compelled in opposite directions with little time to "catch up". But the
sheer elation of having seen and recognized him after so long and the JOY I
recognized in his face at having seen me moved me to my core! Chris was still
the Chris of old with a ready smile. Did he find me to be the same Tony? Two
old friends shared a moment nearly totally devoid of words yet so powerful, so
meaningful. It was an amazing encounter on so many levels. In our "salad days"
it is exceedingly unlikely that such circumstances would have brought us
together so.
Blacks and whites would have never used the same funeral
home. In spite of racial desegregation, certain aspects of life would need far
longer to "homogenize". One of those aspects being death. Thirty years on,
societal evolution set the scene for our meeting. How serendipitous, how karmic
that meeting was!
It was such a sudden event,
and over as suddenly as it began. Chris was swept away by his conventions to
mourning, as was I by mine. There was no exchange of information, no attempt to
perpetuate our reunion. In retrospect I have chided myself, "Why didn't I make
the effort?"
During the final three years
of my father's life, I returned to my hometown often and experienced that
peculiar phenomenon of "reconnecting" with one's past. Places and things can
seem so familiar when one revisits one's childhood home....people, not so much.
My little town had become a "bedroom" to metropolitan Atlanta. The few faces
that seemed familiar, I later learned were the children or GRANDchildren of the
names I recalled for those faces!
One night, while shopping for
a new set of bed linens for Dad's recently-arrived hospital bed (he was in
hospice care at that point and I was acutely aware that we were nearing the end
of our journey together), I noticed a strikingly beautiful, middle-aged black
woman. Her beauty was amplified by the fact that she was animated, happy and in
the company of a very nice-looking black man with an "upright" posture and purposeful bearing. He looked vaguely familiar. I had returned to concentrating on the task
at hand when I heard, "hey, didn't we go to school together?" asked in my
direction. I turned back toward the voice and IMMEDIATELY knew that I was
looking into the adult iteration of James Strickland! His chronically dour teen
face had morphed into the most relaxed, contented, beautifully-proportioned,
wall-to-wall smile I've ever seen!
"James!?" I was incredulous
and elated. I sensed he felt the same.
Before I could get hold of my
verbal skills, James started by introducing me to his lovely wife. They had met
while he was stationed in the north on one of his military assignments. James
followed the path of many from our part of the world; he enlisted at a young age
and had fully-capitalized on his opportunities in the military. He received a
college education, found a gorgeous mate and discovered the potential within him
that had longed to be free of the yoke of our historically segregationist world.
In many ways, his journey out of racism paralleled my own out of the prison of
the small-minded. We were both thriving in our new realities! The beauty of
the moment was overwhelming.
YES! I wanted to shout
without even knowing why. At 52 years old, I couldn't wait to rush home and tell Mom and Dad all
about it. That chance meeting with James, much like the one with Chris,
"completed the circle", to some degree. At least two of the friends who had been
so important when I needed that importance were OK. They were better than
OK.
I couldn't help wondering,
"did seeing me have any effect on them?"
As we parted company that
night, I overheard James' summation of me to his wife. His off-handed remark
about me is the greatest compliment I've ever received. It sounded like the continuation of a conversation, already in progress:
"Tony was one of the
"good" ones."
What more could I ask for?
Yes. Of course I have used
the "n" word.
I commit to never use it
again.
But maybe not for the reasons you think...
"Old" Canton Elementary
School
(until 1976)