BURNT HOT DOGS AND CIVIL RIGHTS

on racism

New here, giving it a shot…

This is how my mother cooked a hot dog:

1.      Boil for at least an hour.

2.      Fry for another half-hour.

3.      By this time, looking like a rabbit turd, put on a Wonder Bread bun and serve.

The consumers’ reaction (my older brother and me):  Feed ‘hot dog’ to the dog. Hide the left over buns in the bottom of the kitchen trash can. (The dog died young, but we figured he had sacrificed himself for the greater good.)

My mother was the worst cook in the world. Not her fault. She grew up during the Depression when food safety was at best hit or miss, so you’d better make sure what you were about to eat was thoroughly—THOROUGHLY—cooked. You never really knew if what you were about to eat could kill you. In fact, one of her sisters (out of 12 siblings) died of food poisoning, as my mother often told us.

But as she was the mother, she was the cook. She’d get home from her job as a clerk at the local electric company, open a beer, light a cigarette, and get to work in the kitchen ‘cooking’ supper. This was the days of the double-day for women, not that those days are necessarily gone. (My father would be at the Elks Club, having more than a few drinks to unwind after a long day of driving a truck.)

My mother (and father, and my brother and I, for that matter) was also a racist. She was, however, an equal opportunity racist. She hated anyone who was not ‘white’—Chinese, Italian, Irish, Mexican, Arab, on and on. But she especially disliked Blacks. Not that she was exceptional in this racism towards Blacks. Just about everybody in my poor, white, working-class town in Northern New York was the same.

No Blacks lived in the town, I didn’t actually see a Black person until I was about 14 and visiting an aunt in Syracuse. And I never really knew there was another word for Blacks other than the n… word until I was about 10 years old.

I was playing over at Michael Greenbaum’s house when for some reason I said the n… word.  Michael’s mother immediately kicked me out of the house and told me never to use that word again. “The term is Negro, not that vile word you said.” I told my mother what had happened and she told me not to worry about it as Mrs. Greenbaum was just a Jew. And so it went.

Back to supper. Four beers and half a pack of Pall Malls later, supper would be ready.  Her menu didn’t vary much, but there was always meat and a vegetable. Pork chops, a steak, some ham (all of it inedible).  There’d be canned peas, or canned corn, or canned green beans. But they’d be cooked so long what we’d actually get would be canned peas soup, or canned corn soup, or canned green beans soup.

My father would come stumbling in just as supper was about to be served, and we’d begin our ritual:  We’d set up the ‘TV tables’ (if you’re under 50 you might want to Google this), my mother in front of her chair to the right, my father in his chair next to her on the left, then me, then my brother. Supper was served (keep in mind this was a tricky situation for my brother and me, as we’d eat what we could, or try to, while surreptitiously slipping the dog as much as possible). TV on, 6:30, and there he was: WALTER CRONKITE.

In 1963, which is where we are in this story, there was no such thing as Smart Phones, no Facebook, no Twitter, no Tik Tok, no Internet at all. There were phones; if they rang you answered them or you didn’t, if you didn’t it eventually stopped ringing. And there was TV. You had your choice of three networks: ABC, NBC, CBS. That was it. Each had their evening newscast (15 minutes at first, later a half-hour), but by far most Americans watched CBS and Walter Cronkite. Millions of people watching the same news.

Walter Cronkite. In poll after poll named the most trusted man in America. He was an older guy, with a small mustache, and a deep sonorous voice. If there’s a god, It probably looks and sounds like Walter Cronkite did. Or at least he’d remind you of a grandfather, the good type, who was kind and wise and never lied to you (except maybe about Santa Claus).

This particular evening—May 2, 1963—Walter was speaking about and showing film of what was going on in Birmingham, Alabama. Dr. King said, “Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States.” And so began a long civil rights campaign to integrate that city. The usual struggles ensued: protests, marches, sit ins, beatings, arrests.  Progress was slow until the notion of a ‘Children’s Crusade’ was hit upon.

The idea was that young people had less to lose in terms of danger and in terms of losing jobs or being jailed or whatever might happen to an adult Black person who dared to resist segregation. It didn’t turn out that way.

On May 3, thousands of young Black kids—middle-schoolers and high school students—marched through Birmingham. They were all dressed nicely, as one did back then when going to school, and peacefully protesting the racist regime that was Birmingham. But the Birmingham ‘Public Safety Commissioner,’ Bull Connor (perfect name for a vicious racist), would have none of it and unleashed holy terror on these beautiful children. Batons cracked heads, police dogs bit into young flesh, and, perhaps worst of all, high pressure water hoses from the fire department were opened up and directed at the protestors. The kids were flung around like leaves on a windy day, they’d be thrown against buildings so hard bones would break. And all the while the beatings and bitings continued. Then as many kids as they could fit into paddy wagons were arrested…soaked, beaten, and scared.

Walter showed the film and talked over it. When the camera returned to him, he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, seen by millions of viewers. Then, surprise of surprises, my mother said,

“That doesn’t seem right. They’re just little kids, not doing anything wrong.”

“That’s right mother [I know],” my father said, “Seems they don’t want much, just to be treated fairly. Bunch of goddamn bullies down there if you ask me.”

No, my parents never stopped using the n-word. But something had changed. After all, Walter Cronkite himself had shown the reality of Black life in Birmingham, and really in the United States, and he clearly disapproved; the most trusted man in America disapproved. And our family was watching and hearing the exact same words and film as millions upon millions of other white families were. One reality.

I can’t prove this, there’s no big social science study backing this up, but what Walter was able to do was provide space for dialogue and reflection. Not that all whites suddenly became non-racist (hardly), but at least they spoke of an equal, single reality. There was not, because there could not be, some MAGA yahoo on his website proclaiming it was all an Antifa setup aided by the international Jewish conspiracy. There was not some orange haired idiot on Facebook congratulating the Birmingham police on putting down a bunch of rioting blacks.

Nope. There was one reality, and if you were going to talk about race you could not make stuff up. The proof was in the Walter. Perhaps for the first time, millions of whites had to deal with the reality of the racial oppression of Blacks. Some, but by no means all, whites began to understand that there needed to be change; there was becoming a kind of consensus among many white Americans. And so the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the 1965 Voting Rights Act, both generally accepted as right and necessary.

To be clear, these acts came into being because of the sacrifices of the civil rights movement. But there were no mass protests by whites against these Acts, no fascists in khakis and white Polo shirts marching and proclaiming ‘Blacks will not replace us.’

Things were somehow different after one person showed one piece of film. For a while, if it’s for me to say, things seemed better. The promise of racial equality sort of peaked its head out and looked around. Still, six months later four young Black girls—Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, Carol Denise McNair (say their names)—were killed when a bomb went off at Birmingham’s 16^th Street Baptist Church. In 1968 King was murdered. Racist murderers had not, and have not, magically disappeared.

So where are we today? On the one hand, there is an amazing struggle to realize true equality not just for Blacks, but Asians (API), women, immigrants, LGBTQ+ community, indigenous peoples, for everyone. (Of course this doesn’t help Tyre Nichols, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery—say their names—and so many other Black people murdered by police or vigilantes acting like cops.)

On the other hand, welcome to Fascism. The Capitol is stormed, Nazis openly March, an ex-President proclaims an entire religion to be evil, all immigrants are rapists, abortion is illegal, the Voting Rights Act is gutted. Republican members of Congress call for killing members of the opposition party, and most of them still deny the legitimacy of the 2020 Presidential election. Proud Boys.  Oath Keepers. QAnon.  (I haven’t checked yet today to see where the latest mass murder by a  guy using an assault weapon took place, but I’m sure it did.)

What does all this Fascist stuff have in common? It’s all based on lies, nonsense. And where does one find all these lies? On social media of course. Go ahead, make something up, let’s say ‘Biden has sex with a goat.’ Now post it. Within minutes you’ll have a following, probably have your post re-posted, and the majority party in the House of Representatives will probably announce the forming of a committee to investigate these allegations.

Truth is where you look. If you’re progressive, that’s where you’ll look on-line, as I do. If you’re the MAGA, QAnon, Democrats run a child sex ring type, that’s where you’ll look on-line. And if you’re the latter, some of you are going to start shooting. Now, let’s have a nice rational discussion on the state of inequality in the U.S.

Walter, where are you when we need you?

CODA

In 1967 I graduated from high school; in 1968 I flunked out of college with a .8 GPA (not easy to do, if you think about it). Within a week I had my draft notice. Knowing being drafted into the Army held a good chance of getting a one-way ticket to Vietnam, I joined the Air Force. Two weeks later I found myself in basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. Basic training in the Air Force mainly consisted of making your bed right and keeping your underwear neatly folded in your locker. Marines we weren’t.

In the bunk next to mine in the barracks was this Black guy from Philadelphia. We got on. He helped me make my bed, I made sure his underwear was neatly folded. There was something about him. He was young (of course, we all were), handsome, full of life, always laughing, making jokes. I just liked being around him.  At night, after ‘lights out’ at 9PM (!), we’d talk quietly for hours. Usually not about anything heavy, girls, what a joke basic training was, how bad the farts were from the guy sleeping two bunks down. But sometimes we’d be a bit more serious, talk about the war, about his being one of the few Blacks in a pretty white outfit, both of us about missing home. He became my best friend. Later in basic, when we were allowed to do so, we’d wander around the base. One day we passed by a barracks and inside some jerk yelled, “Well looky here, a n-word and a n-word lover.” I was ready to rush in there and kick his ass, but my friend said, “Let it go, let it go.” He was right, we could’ve got the crap beat out of us. But he also said, “You think that’s the first time I heard that?”

After basic, we both were to be sent to language school in Monterey, California to study Chinese-Mandarin of all things. But we had some leave time before heading West and I invited him to come spend a weekend or so with me in my hometown, and he accepted. I warned him he’d be the only Black guy around, but he said, “I’ll be OK, I got you.”

So on a hot August night, after a long bus ride from Syracuse and a long walk from the bus station, we arrived at my parents’ house. My parents were sitting on the front porch. My Mom got up and hugged me, my Dad shook my hand. Then my Mom hugged my friend and my Dad shook his hand.

My Dad took our luggage up to our rooms (we had a spare bedroom as my brother had moved out) and my Mom said, “You boys must be exhausted. You just sit yourselves down, and I’ll get us some refreshments.” A minute later out she came with a six-pack, followed by my Dad with two kitchen chairs.

We all sat and were pretty quiet. My friend kept staring at the river that was across the street from our house. My Dad asked him, “You like that river, son?”

My friend answered, “Yeah, I do, no rivers in the part of Philadelphia where I live.”

 “Well tomorrow we’re gonna be on that river doing some fishing. You like fishing?”

“Haven’t done much of it but, yeah, sounds good.”

My Dad looked at his watch and said, “We better get going, mother, if we’re gonna eat.”

It was Friday evening, and that meant the fish fry at the Elks Club.

This was no little matter, as the bylaws of the Elks Club, at the time, read, “No person shall be accepted as a member of this Order unless he be a white male citizen of the United States of America.” And here we were about to bring a Black person into a bastion of whiteness (wives were OK as long as they were with their husbands).

The Elks Club was only a couple blocks away, so we walked over, getting a few stares from the neighbors.

We walked in the front door, into this big all-purpose room, found a table and sat down. Nobody seemed to pay much attention. My Dad knew everybody, and a couple of buddies stopped by our table to say hi. My Dad introduced my friend, and his buddies shook his hand.

The waitress took our beer orders, brought them, and a little while after that brought us our fish frys. And so we ate, had another beer or two, and that was it. No big deal.

Of course, a couple drunks at the bar were complaining, making sure they were loud enough for others to hear: “Look at that, a damn n-word sitting in a white man’s club, acting like he owns the place.” “Yeah, n-words are taking over everything.”

Nobody paid much attention to them. Pretty soon they left, shaking their heads at our table as they headed out the door.

My father paid the bill, we got up and left, and that was that. I was sure there’d be a big uproar, people angry and yelling and threatening us, but none of that happened.

We got home, and as both my friend and I were exhausted, we headed for bed. My Mom took my friend upstairs, showed him his room, where the bathroom was, and hugged him goodnight.

The next morning, we both woke up at the same time and headed downstairs. My Mom had set the dining room table, which she never did except for Thanksgiving, which my brother and I called ‘the turkey from hell day.’

“About time you two lazy heads got up. Have a seat and I’ll get you some coffee.”

Now here’s the thing about god working in mysterious ways. My Mom couldn’t cook…except for pancakes. They were always perfect, slightly crispy on the outside, warm and soft on the inside. Best pancakes I ever ate. She brought out a platter of them, and my friend and I must have had about four each. Then she brought out another platter and we ate all of those. Then another platter and we ate all of those. We were stuffed.

A minute later my Dad walked in. He said to my friend, “You wanted to go fishing, so let’s go.”

My friend was so full of pancakes he could hardly stand, but he bravely made himself get up from the table, went upstairs and got dressed, came down and was ready to go. He and my Dad loaded the car with two fishing poles, worms, and a case of beer, and they were off to the little skiff with a small motor my Dad kept down by the river.

Eight hours later the car pulled into the driveway, more or less, and both of them, drunker than skunks, piled out of the car. My Dad had his arm around my friend, and they were at least trying to sing together ’My Girl.’ Hearing a drunk fifty-eight year old French-Canadian man trying to sing Motown was a sound that still haunts me.

They stumbled in. “We’re home mother,” and he flopped down in his chair. My friend just said good night and slowly made it upstairs to bed. What became of the fishing poles, worms and the skiff for that matter remains a mystery to this day.

Sunday morning, more pancakes, though my friend was so hungover he could barely eat one.

Time to leave. My friend packed and we all drove to the bus stop. My friend thanked my Mom and Dad. My Dad hugged him to the rib breaking point. My Mom, tears running down her cheeks, kissed him again and again, and simply said, “We love you.”

The bus came, my friend got on, we all waved and my Mom cried for another hour.

My friend and I lost touch over the years, but one day I got a letter from his mother saying he had died of a heart attack at age thirty-seven. Actually, he died from being Black…

I don’t know what to make of all this except to say that maybe, just maybe, there’s some hope for us white folks. But we have a lot of work to do.