It Isn't All Seashells and Balloons

I am going to drift from my childhood joy of reading to a related, but different subject in this post. It is about a lesson—a lesson learned in retrospect—that still moves me today.

During the time I lived there and for years afterward, Cincinnati had a reputation as a racist town. It wasn’t discussed openly but the city was sharply divided by race. Of course it is possible, and probably even likely that all cities were/are that way. But I can’t discuss all cities because I only lived in one, Cincinnati.

So how do I get to this subject from the joy of reading? Here’s how: I cannot remember a single children’s book I read during that time that had an African-American character. I’m not saying there weren’t any—I didn’t read every book—but in the books I read white kids were the the only players. (Except, of course, the Dr. Suess books, where he created many different types of characters and not everyone looked alike.)

It must have been very difficult for many African-American children to find the joy I found in reading once they became aware they were excluded from the stories.

Recognizing that led me to other revelations. Years later, when I thought back to my time in McKinley grade school I suddenly realized there were never any African-American children in my classes. None. There was, however, a WWII Army surplus building behind the school that we referred to as “the Colony.” All the special education kids attended there. So did all the African-Americans.

Rear of McKinley as it looks today. The colony has been torn down.

It was no different in Little League. Our leagues were always lily white—with one exception. One year I played on an extremely good team. The team was good enough that despite being a more than fair ballplayer I rode the bench. That team had two African-American players. Good guys. I still remember their names after all these years: Tyrone Cunningham and Kenny Williams. The only time I remember seeing Tyrone hit in a regular season game he hit a home run—that is it was a home run until the umpire called him out for missing third base.

When All-Star game time came the team was in the midst of the city tournament and the coach wasn’t about to send any starters. Instead he sent Tyrone and me. I can’t remember if Kenny went. I started in the game and played the whole thing. Tyrone, as I remember, never left the bench despite being a better player than me.

Frankly, I didn’t recognize the racism at the time. It wasn’t until I was a young man, reliving my youthful exploits that it came clear to me in retrospect.

I suspect that the reason was that neither my mom nor dad were racists. Dad was one of those people who, I always say, could have been parachuted into Tiananmen Square at the height of the conflict and would have made ten friends on each side before he hit the ground.

Dad worked as a stagehand, and when he was an apprentice he did many sign change jobs because they were considered work not fit for journeymen, being both outdoors and low paying. Sometimes he took me along. Once it was to a small blues/jazz club somewhere downtown. The musicians all knew him and even asked if he wanted to sit in on drums. (This, by the way, was the first time I ever knew he played!) What struck me later, though not at the time, was that all the musicians were African-American.

To round this story out I must add this. Dad used to frequent a red-neck bar near Coney Island (where he worked summers) called Hilge’s. I went with him many times and the guys would let me play shuffleboard even though my eyes weren’t much above table height. One afternoon there was a country band practicing for that evening. They asked him to sit in, too. I am so grateful that he taught me color blindness by example, rather than just tell me. It stuck much better that way.

Lousy photo, but the tan building used to be Hilge's

So why talk about this today? Memories attach themselves in places we don’t expect, and reading and racism are attached in this way for me.

I have little doubt that each of us has some racism inside. Even me, although I hope it would take a microscope to find it. But I see and hear it all the time. Each time I hear a variation of the following by an otherwise well-meaning and good person: “Well I worked with some of them and they were pretty good,” I hear racism. When I hear, “I’ve got some black friends,” I hear racism. We simply must see people and not color, and it is sad that we don’t.

Note: Would you like to know something of what it is like to be African-American—or better yet—discover how deep your misunderstandings might run? If so I recommend the following books and essays: The Fire Next Time (James Baldwin) Letter From the Birmingham Jail, (Martin Luther King) I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, (Maya Angelou), The Bluest Eye, (Toni Morrison), or Native Son (Richard Wright). If you consider yourself a reader and haven’t read at least these few you are missing so much.

If you ever hear me say, or if I should write that, “I have black friends.” (or African-American friends) just slap me. Why? I only want to have friends who I don’t sort by color. I don’t have African-American friends . . . I just have friends. I thank my folks for that—and God, too.