Perspective on Prejudice from a White Southern Boy
The South in the 50’s was a different
time. It might be hard to believe in
2010, but then blacks and whites not only went to different schools; almost all
of life was segregated. I still recall
how strange I found it when I began to read and realized there were separate
water fountains at the local Department store.
I played a lot of ball growing
up. We used to sneak away from the ball
field and cut though the woods to frequent a small grocery that had the best
baseball cards in town. Some of the
black kids hung out there, and I didn’t know any of them. One of my older teammates said, “Them is XXXs.
(the ‘N’ word) You can’t hang out with
them.”
Even as a kid, that word seemed ugly, and I knew it wasn’t right. As an adult I was ashamed I had not stood up
to them and said they were wrong. I
prayed for forgiveness. In answer, God
told me I was too young at the time to understand hatred and prejudice.
Our schools were integrated in the
‘60s. In contrast to some parts of the
country the transition was relatively peaceful. At the same time, though, I didn’t go up to my new friends, hug them
around the neck and welcome them to the school. Even then, I could tell they were scared out of their ever-loving minds,
a fact they confirmed to me years later. I regret I didn’t do something to allay their fears. I was a dumb country kid and didn’t know any
better, but that ain’t much excuse.
My own people were prejudiced. They weren’t mean, and they weren’t Klan kinda folks, but they were
prejudiced none-the-less. I remember my
grandmother used to talk about working with the ‘darkies’ on the farm. I wanted to say “Maw, ain’t they just
people?” but for some reason I didn’t.
Yet when we had an elderly black
woman help in our home, we all fell in love with her like she was family. Her name was
Georgia. She told scary ghost stories and was a
wonderful cook. Folks were prejudiced
against her, but I noticed no one turned down her fried chicken. I sure didn’t. It was the best.
I remember when
Georgia got sick. She had leukemia, which was a sure death
sentence back then. (Often it still
is.) When she died my mama cooked up a
big plate of fried chicken. She fixed it
just like
Georgia
would have, and we took it out to their house.
Georgia’s
family lived in a strange part of town where we weren’t supposed to go. The houses were not much more than tar paper
shacks. My mama was supposed to be
prejudiced, but I still recall how hard she cried. I did too.
Georgia’s
family was heart broken of course, but they seemed to appreciate the chicken
and the visit.
Well, now years have gone by and
things are better, but we still have a ways to go. When I visited
Saltillo,
Mississippi,
I stayed at the Jamison Inn. The manager
was a black man named Mark. He made me
feel right at home. Mark was younger
than me, but old enough to remember the way things were. I am sure he understands prejudice at a deeper
level than I will ever know.
Mark and I talked some about the New
South, and how far things have come. When
I checked in I’d promised him a mandolin tune, so before I left for
Oxford I pulled it out of
the case, and played a tune. A young
lady from house-keeping named April sang “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah, Gonna Lay
My Burdens Down” with me.
I thought about all that. The
fact that Mark could greet a white boy and treat him like a brother is a sure
sign that things have gotten better. He
accepted me for exactly what I am, a country doctor who plays the mandolin, and
did not harbor any preconceived notions about me because of the color of my
skin. Given what all he has likely seen
in his life, it would be understandable if he had not done so. I guess the whole process is somewhat similar
to a small white kid who can be forgiven for not understanding it all on first
glance.
All is not right yet, though. Sometimes I hear folks say they hope Mr. Obama will fail. I say the same thing every time. “Damn, man. What’s wrong with you? That’s
like saying you hope his side of the boat springs a leak. As far as I’m concerned we are all in the same
boat together, and we better pray it don’t sink. I pray for Mr. Obama’s success every day.”
I figure I am no longer a dumb naïve country boy, but a grown up doctor,
and I know better. I grew up in a
prejudiced world, and still have much to learn. But, if I can help someone else try to figure it all out, I should.
©Dr Tom Bibey
Dr Tom Bibey, or Dr B as he is often called, describes
himself as a Bluegrass Physician and he describes his writing style as Physician
Bluegrass Fiction. Visit Dr B’s blog at http://drtombibey.wordpress.com/
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