American Chronicles 5. originally airing July 3, 2015.
REFLECTIONS ON RACE
© 2015 John C. Merino
I learned to play guitar by listening to Mississippi John Hurt records, borrowed from the Public Library.
With a Mel Bay beginner’s guitar book open to the major chord charts and a one speaker monophonic record player spinning for hours, I would lift up the tone arm and place it back again…….hundreds of times………….lick by lick, until I had mastered the finger style guitar he played so naturally.
It took months to learn “Candy Man”. It was genius, the simplicity of John Hurt’s finger style guitar.
When my father’s African American friend Curly rang our front doorbell, coming to see Niagara Falls on vacation from his home in Georgia in the mid 1950’s, my four year old brother ran to the front door. It was the first black person he’d ever met and he couldn’t stop starring.
Curly had saved my father’s life in WWII. The canvas topped transport truck, in which they rode, rolled over as it was headed to the airport……….they were on their way to the invasion of Northern Africa. My father was pinned underneath.
By all accounts, Curly lifted the rear corner of that truck…………nearly single handedly………and my father was pulled out from underneath it.
He spent the better part of the next two years in a hospital recovering from a broken back. Curly went on to invade Northern Africa.
In 1963, on my way home from Saturday morning open gym basketball at St. Mary’s School on 5th Street, the boys and I planned to do what we always did…….
…….stop at Violas Submarine Shop for a 12 inch steak and cheese and a Royal Crown Cola. Total $1.10.
We ran down 17th street just past the Boy’s Club……….and there was Frankie walking home. He was my one black friend.
We played games of Bumper Pool for nickels at the Club, after school. Back then, a dime bought you a soda. Frankie usually won and with my money, bought me one too.
As we ran toward him, I shouted his name and he turned to see who it was, and as he did, one of my basketball buddies shouted the “N” word……….asking him what he was doing in “our” neighborhood………
……and without warning, punched Frankie in the head as he ran by, stopping to deliver another blow to his face before running on for his Steak and Cheese and Royal Crown Cola.
I shouted to ”leave him alone” and stood with my friend as he wiped the tears from his face asking me what he had done to that boy………he didn’t even know him. We were 12 and 90 pounds soaked and wet.
I walked Frankie home and skipped Violas that Saturday……….and never again went to St. Mary’s gym.
Instead, I’d walk to the Boys Club down the block, and play pick-up ball with the inner city kids…………………some white and some black…..and all much better “round ball” players………..than those Catholic kids, of which I was one.
When my mother asked why I didn’t go to St. Mary’s any more………….I just said the Boys Club was closer and left it at that.
In the early 80’s while working for a national Urban Development non-profit I was given my first assignment in Nashville, Tennessee.
I had continued to teach myself to play guitar………borrowing records from the public library. Repeating the exercise………..Mel Bay beginners chord book open on the table………….lifting up and resetting the tone arm a hundred times or more, to hear a particular “lick” or musical phrase…….
Sleepy John Estes, John Hurt, Son House, Libba Cotton, Charlie Patton, Reverend Gary Davis, Blind Arthur Blake…………Nashville was a guitar player’s picnic.
I’ve always said that if there were such a thing as reincarnation, I wished it would work in reverse.
I’d love to come back as a black, finger-pickin’ guitar player in 1917 Mississippi……….if for no other reason than the music……..knowing now its import and influence.
A coworker in Nashville, native to the south, invited me to breakfast early in my tenure there.
He took me to a neighborhood Nashville coffee shop round the corner from Music Row.
There was a small card (3X5) taped to the corner of the front window. The words over the top of the faded confederate flag read “Whites Only”.
It had yellowed with time. It must have been there for decades. This was the early 1980’s.
I was out of my element…………I’d seen it on TV 20 years before……the fire hoses and dogs………..but never experienced firsthand, prejudice that blatant.
We walked in and there were as many black patrons as white patrons……….the counter nearly filled……….the booths packed with chatter and southern speak.
We sat at the counter. Out of the kitchen came a tall, handsome black man with a starched white chef’s hat, his name embossed above his apron pocket……..(it read…Frankie).
He was carrying plates of ham and eggs, balanced up his long arm……..placing them in a slippery motion on the counter next to the coffee and bowls of grits……………there were always bowls of grits…………………and this was his coffee shop.
I ate my breakfast there at least three times a week for months, after that……….we got to know each other………and eventually……..I asked about the sign in the corner of the front window.
He said…………”when one of them white boys complains about my cooking and asks for the boss, I just tell ‘em……………he ain’t here right now”.
That morning of my first visit to the coffee shop, I saved the life of a poodle; somewhat resplendent with its bows and painted nails…………it was locked in a closed car in an extreme southern heat.
The dog was barely breathing……panting and half passed out……inside the white on white Cadillac with the confederate flag head rests…….the ride of some southern bell with attitude, I came to learn.
She was shopping in an upscale women’s boutique down the block……and though I don’t know for certain, she must have been pursing with every new dress she tried on. She looked like that.
I tried all the doors, stood by the car for a few minutes and when the poodle finally collapsed from heat exhaustion in what must have been 150 degrees inside that car, I broke the rear passenger window of the Cadillac……..with a trash can there on the street. I got a bowl of water from the coffee shop and waited for the owner to come back. It was another 20 minutes before she arrived. The dog would have died.
As she walked up to her car, seeing me watering her panting dog on the sidewalk she screamed……”call the police”, and someone did. They reprimanded her for endangering her dog, took my name and local number and then the officer said, “You better leave now Yankee” and I did.
Suffice it to say, I’ve never liked poodles…….before or since.
The window we now need to break is racism, with all its symbols.
The confederate flag…….representing not only that of irrefutable traitors to the United States and what our constitution stands for……….was and is still adopted by those who hate minorities and immigrants keeping parts of our country in turmoil to this day……..
…….bigots and racists and white supremacists…………..and I see it here and hear it in our own small community………
Confederate flag bumper stickers on cars, and bikes and flags in the upper story apartment windows of tenements………….
………..and I hear it at taverns where the working men go after their shift………….and I have no compunction about challenging their racism when I hear it……(we all should)…………policy and politics aside…..when the president is insulted with the “N” word, or poor people are maligned for no other reason……….than being poor…….someone has to say something.
It was no coincidence that “Frankie” owned that coffee shop in Nashville…………not serendipity that my Boys Club friend had the same name………….hardly racist that a 4 year old saw his first black person and was awe struck.
………it was, I suppose, a blessing (if there really are such things). It helped make me color blind, still envious of Mississippi John Hurt to this day, still picking up the tone arm 100 times………..still wondering what difference skin color really makes.
After all, the Italians and Jews and Irish all suffered cast stones. The difference was our ancestors chose to come to America…………….we weren’t corralled and chained and whipped into submission with our enslavement being the justification for southern states seceding from the union…………..and even today, 170 years later…………that succession is heralded by those displaying the confederate flag. They call it heritage.
Some heritage.
It’s time to shelve the confederate flag and all it stands for, past and present.
The savage murders in Charleston should make that absolutely clear. They were race based………..committed by a boy swayed by his environment and his mistaken belief that the “south will rise again”.
Well, maybe it can rise again………….in a way that admits its emblems culpability and confronts its real history and heritage, once and for all.
I’m John Merino and this is American Chronicles.
American Chronicles is a bi-weekly locally produced feature on WRFA written and produced by retired Gebbie Foundation CEO, John C. Merino. Currently, John is an Adjunct Professor of Micro-Economics, Organizational Management, and 20th Century World History at Mercyhurst University. American Chronicles airs twice monthly, Friday mornings at 7:15 and Friday Afternoons at 4:35. American Chronicles features original stories (partly fact and partly fiction), commentary on local, state , national, world conditions and more.
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