Becoming: Bigotry absorbed
Dad pulled up and, looking at us, rolled down the window. Not saying anything, he nodded and pulled away, cranking up the window as he shifted our small English Hillman sedan into second. I knew I’d hear about it later.
Richard Taylor and I were in the fifth grade and lived just a block apart.
Richard asked, “Is that your dad?” picking up a rock. A perfect rock. Just heavy enough to make an impact. Light enough to throw. Round and smooth, and I knew it felt just right in the hand.
“Yep,” I said, wishing I’d seen it first.
Richard leaned back and let it fly at the neighbor’s garbage can.
BAM! It hit hard and loud. The sound — deeply satisfying but far louder than acceptable. We broke into a hard run with wild laughter coming from deep inside of both of us at the audacity of it.
I liked walking to school with Richard. He had an easy laugh and got so much joy picking up anything throwable along the way — a habit I immediately mimicked. We threw at power poles, fire hydrants, garbage cans, of course, and anything else that we felt were safe targets, competing to see who the best shot was. It was Richard, but I never minded losing to him — he was so relaxed about the whole thing and just plain easy to be around.
He liked me. I liked him.
The next morning, a Saturday, I heard Dad say, “Teddy’s walking to school with that colored kid from the next block,” as I came down to breakfast.
Mom replied, “he’s just a friend, Ted. Teddy needs friends.”
“Well, he doesn’t need colored friends.”
Entering the kitchen, Dad took my arm, squeezing it to get my attention, “Teddy, I don’t want you playing with or walking to school with that colored kid.”
Mom busied herself with boiling potatoes — turning off the burner, picking up the pot, and draining the steaming water — carefully holding the lid so the potatoes didn’t fall into the sink.
Monitor was on the radio, and Dave Garroway’s calm, comforting voice filled the kitchen from the set in our eating nook. I hoped Mom might say something.
Dad shushed her before she could, although I knew she welcomed the shift in attention as Garroway talked about the Detroit strike and a reporter stepped in to give us the details. Dad was a union man — a Teamster. I’d overheard Mom and Dad whisper about strikes and sometimes violent suppression of unions, so the news capturing Dad’s attention was no surprise.
Taking it in, I didn’t say a thing. Relieved, maybe.
Thinking for a moment, I’d conceal my friendship with Richard from Dad as I started to set the table, then discarding the thought, knowing he’d find out and there’d be hell to pay.
Richard and I had scouted the junkyard a couple of times during daylight — played with the rafts in the swamp, and wandered the forest band that separated our neighborhood from the industrial flats below. All forbidden. But I’d never had him over for an after-school snack. I think I knew that it wasn’t okay to hang out with him long before Dad’s pronouncement. I’d overheard plenty of racist talk.
Pouring the milk over my cereal, I knew I’d only see Richard in school from now on.
The radio droned on. No one said a thing.
