DISCRIMINATION

I love books. Most of my working years I read only work related material. Since I was a college professor for a chunk of my time I was just trying to stay abreast of my field. That was part of all my jobs.

I clearly remember the first book I read for leisure or pleasure or whatever you want to call it. It was a Larry McMurtry book about Calamity Jane. The book was a gift from a friend before my wife and I left for a trip to Hawaii. This friend felt it was time I started reading for fun. I liked the idea, but my initial response was, NOT a western! I had already seen Lonesome Dove on TV and while I like western movies, I had serious doubts about a book.

It hooked me. I started reading the book on the plane and nearly had it finished by the time we arrived. My wife, daughter and her cousin watched the movie. I stayed with the book (I had already seen the movie anyway.).

In the winter I read almost a book a week. I slow down in the summer. I would usually rather be outside talking with people (Don’t want to miss the gossip). But a friend here at The Home gave me a book earlier this week and I cannot put it down. I especially love US history novels, fact based stories, autobiographies, legal thrillers, Ted Dekker books (he writes books about subjects I would never pick up) but I now get everything he writes. He does a lot with fantasy thriller (I guess that’s right) other world things. Not usually my cup of tea.

Anyway, the book I was given is “Destined to Witness – growing up black in Nazi Germany” by Hans J. Massaquoi. He is the son of a German woman and a Liberian father. The title alone captured my attention. I have been reading quite a bit about blacks in our south and watching movies and TV shows about their struggles. Hans father and mother never married. He returned to Liberia and she moved to Hamburg, Germany where she reared her son. He survived the rise of Hitler, but with many reasons to be fearful. I have spent all day reading instead of cleaning my apartment. Oh well, it will just get dirty again.

I know why my interest has peaked. One of my best friends in grade school was a black boy I’ll call A.H. He was in my class for as long as I can remember. I think since Kindergarten. I was too self-centered to know anyone else in that grade. We all were.
I remember really getting close to him in seventh and eighth grade. It was then I began to be aware that blacks were treated differently and began to see a small slice of his world though his eyes.

We were on safety patrol together. In the 50’s you put on a skinny white belt around your waist and over your shoulder then courageously stepped into traffic with your arms spread wide open and hoped cars saw you and stopped. I always prayed they would, but had my doubts at times.

A.H. and I both wanted to be stunt men. To prepare for our future careers we did a lot of fake fighting in an empty lot at our safety patrol corner. Only five kids crossed at our stop so we had plenty of time. I got the shock of my life (probably A.H. also) when on one occasion a car stopped in the middle of our busy road and came a pulled A.H. off me. He screamed stop beating up on the white boy. A.H. tried to protest to no avail. He was told to get out of here before he got the - - - - beat out of him. He ran as fast as he could. When I got home my father had to explain what happened to us. I was mad. A.H. and I began to play a game. We moved our fights closer to the street and kept a record of how many cars we could get to stop and what caused the stop. I don’t remember the total any longer, but no cars stopped when I appeared to be beating A.H. Cars only stopped when he looked like he was beating me to a pulp.

Just to protect ourselves, we kept an ear to the traffic and when a car stopped we took off running in different directions, met up later and laughed ourselves silly.

I could tell dozens of stories I learned while hanging out with A.H. Most were fun, but some made me angry. The first experience of rejection he had with me was at a school roller skating party. I was approached and told I could go in, but he could not. I protested that our teacher was inside and we were there for the class party. Nearly half my class was turned away. Rather than go in with him, we went to a movie. It was the first movie I had ever attended. My parents would not have approved. I can remember very little about the movie, except that it was a western and a teenage boy was hung for cattle rustling (I think). All I knew was if my parents found out I could very well be that boy hanging at the end of that rope.