White Boy Time

January 20, 2014.Reading time 4 minutes.

I grew up during integration and got bused in the 9^th grade from the suburbs to Central High School in downtown Louisville. I don’t recall any problems or issues except for getting caught hanging a dissected fetal pig in the stairwell. But that had nothing to do with the racial tension of the times. While there, I joined the wrestling squad with a friend named Paul. Neither of us had ever wrestled. But there we stood on the first day with our puny arms and legs jutting out of our singlets, the only freshman on the matt and the only white kids on the team. None of that ever mattered; I had a ball that season.

Unfortunately, I had to practice every day with a senior named Marcus who introduced me to all kinds of takedowns and submission holds, as well as Jheri Curl. (It was the 80’s, after all.) Marcus had a very likeable manner, always quiet and unassuming while he wrecked me on the matt. The funniest thing happened toward the end of each practice. The team captain, Leonard, kept the clock and at precisely 4 pm, he would yell, “White boy time!” This because Paul and I had to leave early to catch the TARC bus back the burbs. Marcus would free me of whatever death grip he was working on at the time and the whole team always gave us a cheer as we left.

I count myself fortunate to have been raised in a home where color was never an issue. Thank you, Mom and Dad. I am blessed to have had experiences like the wrestling team and a stint in the army to show me a man’s heart and metal are infinitely more important than his skin. So recently when my barber made an overtly racist comment to me after my third time in his chair, I walked out, determined never to return. I really thought we were past that.

It didn’t take long to find a new barber shop nearby when I needed my next haircut. I pulled in the crowded shopping center and walked through the tinted glass door, looking for a place to sign in. By the time I got to the counter, I realized I was being stared at by about thirty people in the shop. Ironically, I was the only white guy. Kinda funny after the reason for my switch. White boy time, again.

Time froze as it is apt to do awkward situations until a guy from behind the counter asked, “You want a cut?”

“What’s the wait?” I asked. After all, it was crowded.

“About as long as it will take you to get in this chair,” he said.

It took about three seconds and I got a good cut from Bennie. I’ve been back a few times. Turns out he is from Ohio, grew up on the Reds and King’s Island like me and has a precious baby girl. Nice guy, Bennie. We have a lot in common. I like talking to him more than the guy down the street.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr Day. I urge you to meditate on his brilliant I Have a Dream speech and other writings regularly and invite you down here to Atlanta to visit The Martin Luther King, Jr., National Historic Site. It is a good thing to honor such a man.

The Only Sled in Town

January 7, 2014.Reading time 6 minutes.

The one and only sled in Portsong belonged to Johnny DeLongo and sat idle for most of the first year he lived in town. His father, Marco, a genius at research, had moved the family down from the Bronx after accepting the position of head engineer at the Swanson Glassworks. Acceptance into Portsong life was not reciprocated for the youngster, who found himself different at every turn.

On his first day of school, he mistakenly assumed everyone was a Yankees fan and hailed Babe Ruth as the greatest baseball player of all time. Little could he know that Ty Cobb was a local hero from a town nearby and the radio station serving the Portsong area in 1926 broadcast only the Detroit Tigers.

His thick New York brogue did nothing to aid his prospects. He had to repeat himself every time he offered an answer to the teacher, prompting snickers from his classmates. He was constantly told to slow down or just stared at with blank faces when he tried to speak.

The place he felt most different was church. Raised a good Catholic, Johnny had no idea what to make of his first service at the Goose Creek Country Church. Instead of a robed, tranquil priest crossing himself and speaking Latin, Johnny sat in the hard pew and watched the antics of the animated Reverend Josiah Crane. The poor child decided the preacher was speaking some strange derivative of English while he slapped the pulpit, waved his arms, wailed loudly, and pounded out his sermon. When the piano began playing, I Surrender All, Johnny was ready to surrender whatever necessary to get out of the old, stuffy church.

But his misfortune changed on the first day it snowed. The white stuff surprised the other boys, but seemed ordinary enough to Johnny, who retrieved his trusty Flexible Flyer from the cellar and joined the marching boys headed toward Curaban Point. He fell in line next to the only boy who had tried to be nice to him thus far – a boy name Henry Lee.

“What’s that thing?” Henry asked

“Itza sled,” Johnny replied, looking at the scrap of tin the boy held. “Ain’t you got one?”

“No,” lamented Henry. “It’s never snowed before.”

“What?” cried Johnny, wondering what that could possibly mean.

“Not since I’ve been alive,” Henry said matter of factly. “Is that thing fast?”

“Sure is! Gave the ruddahs a fresh coat a wax this morning. It’ll haul!”

Johnny’s tempo had picked up in his excitement and Henry didn’t quite understand him, but he let it go. The two plodded along, talked, laughed, and genuinely enjoyed each other’s company until they reached the summit of the hill and found Virgil Creech waiting with an old shovel to ride.

“Hey-ho, Henry,” he called to his friend before turning his nose up at Henry’s company. “Whatcha doin’ with him?”

“He’s okay, Virgil. Just new here.”

Virgil looked the new boy from head to toe, his eyes finally coming to rest on the red metal and polished wood of the sled. “What’s that thing?” he asked.

Johnny laughed, still surprised at these boys and their ignorance of sleds. “Itza sled. You wanna take it down?” he offered.

Virgil’s eyes grew wide, “Ya mean it?”

“Shoo-wah, climb on,” replied Johnny as he slid the rudders into place on the powder.

Virgil discarded his shovel and was belly-down on the sled in an instant. With a slight push he left behind only a glee-filled scream for the others on top of Curaban Point. Every boy on the hill gathered around as Virgil trudged back up with sled in tow. He merrily answered a dozen questions about the ride and hesitantly offered the sled back to Johnny, who didn’t take it.

“You wanna go?” Johnny asked Henry.

Henry took him up on the offer, as did every other boy present. In fact, Johnny never got to touch the sled that day, but enjoyed the acceptance as the Portsong boys looked past his newness for the first time and realized he was just a kid, like them. Even Virgil decided he liked this new kid, no matter how funny he talked.