By JIM CLAYTON/Staff Writer
I grew up in West Texas during the ’70s and ’80s, dirt poor, living in a trailer park. Don’t misunderstand the statement. That’s not to solicit pity of any kind. Sure, we didn’t have the massive collection of Star Wars figures that my friend Craig had (his dad was a lawyer), or wear GUESS jeans and boutique shirts like our friend Cherie did (her dad was in the oil business), but we did okay with our death trap dirt bikes and bonfire campouts in the desert.
When you’re broke, 
you find your fun where you can, don’t’cha know!
We had quite a motley group of friends back then. Membership would fluctuate, but it hovered around twenty or so kids who would randomly show up on weekends or at bonfires and just goof around playing music or drinking cheap contraband misdemeanors and having a good time. Most of the group looked a lot like me, just in a different font, but we had some diversity.
Anthony was my best friend. We went to war together every Friday night, him on one end of the defensive line, and me on the other. Our favorite hobby was eating quarterbacks, we just couldn’t eat a whole one by ourselves, so we had to share. He lived in a nice, lower-middle-class neighborhood where the houses were small and the cars were old but well cared for. My parents called it “dark town” and told me to stay away from there; an order I completely ignored. They were always nice to me when I visited. Anthony had a sister named Rosalyn. I liked Rosalyn.
There were the Navarro twins. They were working to become professional boxers. They were both small, but you didn’t want to be on the wrong side of Ricky’s left cross or Jason’s uppercut. They lived in “Juarez,” even though the real Juarez was 300 miles away. Again, I was told to stay away from there. Again, I ignored it. After a weekend of mowing yards, you could take your $20 and go to “Juarez,” find the guy with the pushcart, and eat some of the best food on the planet to be had from a box on wheels. They were always nice to me when I visited.
Then there was Doug. His name was Duong, but Texas kids seldom use anyone’s real name. I’m 53 years old, and in certain circles, I’m still known as Bam-Bam. I didn’t bring Doug around the house much. My dad was a Vietnam vet. He didn’t like Doug. It seemed apropos to keep them apart. Doug’s family didn’t stay in the area long. I’m not sure why, but they were really nice to me the one time I visited.
As a kid, I was bothered by the whole “white/black” thing. It doesn’t make sense, does it? Black people aren’t black. They are shades of brown. White people aren’t white. They are shades of…what color are we? Almond? Eggshell? Ivory? My heritage started so close to the Arctic Circle that our color is a shade of mayonnaise. We are almost translucent. When my little brother broke his arm, they didn’t have to run an X-ray, they just held him up to the light.
In Dr. Robin DiAngelo’s book “White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism,” she makes the statement, “Whiteness rests upon a foundational premise” the definition of whites as the norm or standard for humans, and people of color as a deviation from that norm.” (DiAngelo, 2018 p.36)
We should probably skip right past the part where they say my gene pool is the foundational premise of what the “norm.”
WHITE OR BLACK
Why do we call people white or black?
Throughout history, particularly Judeo-Christian history, the color white has always been associated with purity, cleanliness, godliness, and all things good. The color black has always been associated with sin, sorrow, death, and the mystery of the unknown.
In our literature, movies, and entertainment, white and black often symbolize the fight between good vs. evil. Our Eurocentric ancestors intentionally stacked the deck against anyone not of Anglican descent, and our modern culture is not only colored by that (no pun intended) but often ignorant of the problem.
In America, this creates a dual existence for anyone who is not a white man and as a white man, that’s hard for me to swallow. Nasar Meer tells us in his book “Key Concepts In Race And Ethnicity,” “Fuelled largely – but not exclusively – by colour racism, this duality is a kind of paradox which stems from being intimately part of a society while excluded from its public culture, or, as Du Bois characteristically puts it, ‘being an outcast and stranger in mine own house.’”
I AM AN AMERICAN
Put it like this. I am an American. It’s okay for me to be just an American. My friend Anthony is an American, but he is also a Black American. He has no choice but to be both of those things. Those two things do not always complement one another. More often than not, they don’t.
I’ll leave you with this story for context. It isn’t a nice story, but I feel it is important to tell it.
I liked Anthony’s sister Rosalyn. A lot. She liked me, too, and I thought that was just great! We started dating VERY quietly, not because we were afraid of appearances, but because we were worried about Anthony. I was dating his sister. That was a tough thing to explain to your best friend in the mid-80s. It was a testosterone-fueled protective thing. I understood the boundary I was crossing.
One Saturday afternoon, Ros and I met up at the mall and went to a movie together. It was a movie called “Hot Moves” and was rated R, but I knew a guy, so I got us in. I didn’t know at the time, but sitting two rows behind us was one of the drivers who worked with my dad. He knew me well.
I got home that evening to find my father waiting for me in the driveway when my cousin dropped me off. Mom wasn’t home. She was with my aunt, grocery shopping. My cousin did his best to help, but Dad was a formidable man. The neighbors called the police, I went to the hospital and missed three days of school.
Upon my return to school, I went into the field house after limping through practice and found Rosalyn’s three brothers waiting for me, Anthony among them. I then missed two more days of school.
I remember being angry; as angry as I’d ever been. I didn’t understand why everyone was so worked up. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like Rosalyn and I had crossed any real lines. It was wrong, and I was ready to fight for this girl! I was ready to fight the world for puppy love, and I wanted to hurt some people to do it! It was all very Shakespearean!
I decided that the thing I needed to do was march over to her house and talk to Rosalyn’s father!
So, I started walking. Well, I rode a bike, but whatever.
When I got to her house, Mr. D, as I had called him many times, was waiting for me in his driveway sitting on a chair.
“Is there anyone with you, boy?” He didn’t look at me. He looked over my shoulder. I was of little interest to him.
“No, sir,” I said, doing my best to look determined, though I was certain I was moments from yet another beating.
Mr. D still ignored my presence, instead watching the streets in the direction I came from.
“Then get the **** out of here. You don’t belong here.”
I was stunned. I had been in this man’s house hundreds of times. Eaten at his table. Celebrated holidays with his family. “Why, Mr. D? I’ve been here as much as my own house. Anthony is my best friend. I like Rosalyn, Mr. D.”
“No, boy, you don’t. It wouldn’t matter if you did.” He wasn’t judgmental. I could tell he just wanted me gone.
“Why doesn’t it matter? Why doesn’t any of it matter?”
He glimpsed at me. Just a glance, then turned his sentry stare back to the road.
“You looked in a mirror? You can’t protect yourself from people who care about you. How are you going to protect mine? You don’t know a (explicative) thing in this world, son. And, you need to grow up. Now get out of here, and don’t come back.”
And, that hit. When nothing else would reach me, that got through. Why did my dad do what he did? Why did my best friend and my girlfriend do what they did? Why did Mr. D have a pistol behind his back with the butt of it just visible enough for me to see, and why on Earth wouldn’t he look at me?
The answer came to me all at once, but it was more than I could process at 14-years-old.
So, I did what I was told, tail firmly between my legs. There was a trust in me that broke that day. I wanted to blame Mr. D. I wanted to blame Anthony and Ros. I wanted to blame my dad. I wanted to blame a lot of people, and for a while, I did. But, the older I got, the more I realized how much bigger it all was. Everything changed for me that week and it continues to do so.
CONFUSING TIME
As a white man, this is a confusing time to be an American. I am determined to do the right thing because I don’t care about how much melanin is in your skin. I am much more interested in the individual that you are. I am also shockingly aware of how much of a white-man luxury that point of view is. It is a nice thought, but minorities still have to consider what the white man in the room is going to do because his actions tend to impact far more than just him.
Good intentions notwithstanding, it is overwhelming in terms of how we should fix this. There’s a lot of work to do and a lot of house cleaning to be handled.
So, let this mayonnaise-tinted white guy make you a promise. I’ll do the sweeping if you do the mopping.
Until next time:
Be good to each other.
Take care of yourself.
And, don’t be a jerk.
