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 Editorials | Opinions | March 2008 
Racial Memories
 Alan Burkhart - PVNN
Here we are again in an election year. The political mud is flying, the talking heads are having a feeding frenzy and every pollster on the planet is playing with the numbers.
For the first time in our history there is a realistic possibility of a US President who is something other than a white male. Oh sure, Jesse Jackson once sought to be the first black president, but no one ever believed he had a snowball's chance of winning. Good thing, too.
Barrack Obama, on the other hand, is a charismatic and easily likable guy who has an excellent opportunity to ruin The Shrew's chances of being our first female president. Politically speaking, both of them frighten me. But if I had to choose between the two, I'd choose Obama.
It hasn't been that many years ago that America was still too backwards for a black man to have any chance at our highest office. But in spite of the incoherent rantings and ravings of so-called "black leaders" ranging from Obama's own Jeremiah Wright to the quirky Louis Farrakhan, America has indeed rounded the corner.
Politics aside, I am proud of the fact that an African American can actually run for high office with a legitimate chance of victory. Mind you, I'd prefer Alan Keyes, but we're not debating Left versus Right here.
I am old enough to remember the last remnants of overt racism in the little Texas town that spawned me. I remember the "Whites Only" signs outside the public restrooms at the fairgrounds. I remember the old wooden sidewalks behind downtown businesses - blacks weren't allowed to walk out front with the white folks. And I remember the little sitting areas in the kitchens of local restaurants; blacks weren't allowed to sit out front. If you were black, you could eat at most any restaurant you could afford as long as you didn't mind sitting in a dilapidated chair with your plate in your lap and dodging the busy cooks and servers while they worked.
I was blessed with parents who had little, if any, of the redneck prejudices that permeated that town. When our schools integrated in the mid-60's, I regarded "those black kids" as being new friends with whom I'd not yet become acquainted. It was an adventure for all of us, and to this day I have warm friendships with many of those same timid, deer-in-the-headlights black kids who braved those first days of attending school "in town."
One of my dad's most senior employees was an old black gentleman named "Watt." Dad had a garage and tow truck service and as a young boy I loved to go out on a "wrecker call." Quite often that meant spending some time on the road with Watt.
One summer afternoon when I was about twelve years old, we were on our way back from dragging a truck out of the mud and it was well past lunch time. Tired and hungry, we stopped in a small restaurant about twenty miles from home for a bite to eat. Watt headed around back to enter through the kitchen. Having no clue at first what was about to happen, I walked around back with him.
My dad had a solid business and was well-known in the area. He was especially popular with blacks because he treated them the same way he treated everyone else; fairly and honestly. When we came through the back door, the cook (also black) stopped what he was doing to greet us, then grabbed a couple of chairs for us. The two men knew each other, and after a moment he asked if I was "Mister Clay's son." I replied in the affirmative and was quickly included in their conversation. There were several other African Americans in the tiny "Colored" dining area and all of them seemed just pleased as punch to have me sitting with them.
Then in walked a white waitress. She did a double-take at this single grain of salt in the pepper shaker, grabbed her order and sauntered out the door, glancing back over her shoulder as she went. Watt and the cook both chuckled at the woman's discomfiture, and that's when I realized I was about to become a bone of contention.
There was a long narrow window that ran almost the full length of the wall separating the kitchen from the dining area, and I noticed that there were now a lot of people just happening by and glancing through the glass to see this weird white kid hanging out with the Negroes in the back. Was I (gasp!) white trash? Was I a runaway child who'd been picked up by this now-suspicious old black man? Why on Earth wasn't I sitting up front with the white folks?
Easy answer: My good friend and occasional mentor wasn't up front. If the front dining area was too good for Watt, then it was too good for me as well. Watt and I finished up our burgers and headed for home, giggling all the way in over the confusion we'd created simply because I'd elected to sit in the fine company of one of my best childhood friends.
I'd like to think that America has come a long ways since that incident nearly forty years ago. We still have our troubles as a nation, and racial tension will persist at some level from now to Doomsday. And yes, bigotry exists in the hearts of some blacks as well as whites. But regular everyday people don't have the time or patience for such foolishness. We're not worried about each other's skin color, and we're smart enough to realize that what happened back in America's dark days should remain in the dark. Wounds don't heal if you keep picking at them.
Perhaps troublemakers like Louis, Jesse and Jeremiah should spend some time here in Mississippi and watch how blacks and whites work side by side. They won't see us sniping or backstabbing or making trouble for each other. We're too busy working, playing and living our lives to engage in childish hate. On the other hand, they just might see us sitting down to lunch together at Waffle House or McDonald's. But these days we'll all be out front with the white folks.
Alan Burkhart is a cross-country trucker and occasional columnist from Mississippi. You can view all of Alans work at his blogs: http://alanburkhart.blogspot.com and http://roadimage.blogspot.com You can contact Alan at: alan(at)alanburkhart.com. |
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