I love that you continue to bravely explore the Black/white divide. I am Minneapolis born and bred, but also child of a Mpls. cop, which presented many confusing lessons of “acceptable” racism and expectations of what I could and could not do. It all became more explosive when I began dating a Black teen in my almost all-white high school. I was 13 and it was the ‘70s.
Our all white 10th grade class took a week-long choir trip via bus that brought us south, through the Deep South en route to Florida. I recall that at 16 I was trying to put my finger on what was different about the Blacks in Alabama and Georgia and those I knew in Minnesota. I described it as them seeming to “know their place,” which didn’t capture it very well because I didn’t believe they had a place to occupy that was different from mine, but that seemed to be the way things worked in the South. Again, confusing and uncomfortable.
The boyfriend and I were together for years. I was part of his family. We had a child. We split up, then made peace, and we stay in touch. He was the love of my young life, but it was made way harder by white family members who were and still are white supremacists. It divides us still.
None of this shit is easy. We need to keep talking about it. Much love.
Ok, I'm seeing a book here! Ever thought of writing it all down? Amazing story. Thank you so much for sharing it with me. And for follwing me so closely on Substack. It makes a huge difference to me.
This brought up so many repressed memories it made me cry. I first heard of Willie McGee as a young actress working on a scene from Tennessee Williams' play BAND OF ANGELS (which became the movie THE FUGITIVE KIND. I knew it had to be a real person (I thought maybe Emmet Till) but there were plenty to draw from. There is something so barbarous about growing up knowing you were lucky to be White, but not knowing the kind of details the Blacks in town lived with. There were lynchings in Mobile right through the 1950s, and when a torso showed up in a Mississippi river at the time of the brutal murders of Civil Rights leaders Schwerner and Goodman, lawmen shrugged it off with a casual acknowledgement that they knew who that was; he had been killed a month or so before. While we may be able to absolve ourselves of personal wrongdoing, we still bear the scars of our duplicitous home towns in our souls.
Thanks for continuing to share the history that is hidden from most of us in white society. I grew up during this time period as well but in Iowa. I have a feeling there are thousand of hidden stories there as well. A few came out during this time when when my mother had a fellow worker spend nights at our home when the weather was to bad to travel. He was black, and a great guy with a lovely family. The neighbors where no as happy that my mother, a single woman with a young daughter at home would let him stay over night. They were in horror - we how ever had wonderful evening dinners with stories of family and history. So glad to have a mother who was open to giving people a helping hand.
I love that you continue to bravely explore the Black/white divide. I am Minneapolis born and bred, but also child of a Mpls. cop, which presented many confusing lessons of “acceptable” racism and expectations of what I could and could not do. It all became more explosive when I began dating a Black teen in my almost all-white high school. I was 13 and it was the ‘70s.
Our all white 10th grade class took a week-long choir trip via bus that brought us south, through the Deep South en route to Florida. I recall that at 16 I was trying to put my finger on what was different about the Blacks in Alabama and Georgia and those I knew in Minnesota. I described it as them seeming to “know their place,” which didn’t capture it very well because I didn’t believe they had a place to occupy that was different from mine, but that seemed to be the way things worked in the South. Again, confusing and uncomfortable.
The boyfriend and I were together for years. I was part of his family. We had a child. We split up, then made peace, and we stay in touch. He was the love of my young life, but it was made way harder by white family members who were and still are white supremacists. It divides us still.
None of this shit is easy. We need to keep talking about it. Much love.
Ok, I'm seeing a book here! Ever thought of writing it all down? Amazing story. Thank you so much for sharing it with me. And for follwing me so closely on Substack. It makes a huge difference to me.
This brought up so many repressed memories it made me cry. I first heard of Willie McGee as a young actress working on a scene from Tennessee Williams' play BAND OF ANGELS (which became the movie THE FUGITIVE KIND. I knew it had to be a real person (I thought maybe Emmet Till) but there were plenty to draw from. There is something so barbarous about growing up knowing you were lucky to be White, but not knowing the kind of details the Blacks in town lived with. There were lynchings in Mobile right through the 1950s, and when a torso showed up in a Mississippi river at the time of the brutal murders of Civil Rights leaders Schwerner and Goodman, lawmen shrugged it off with a casual acknowledgement that they knew who that was; he had been killed a month or so before. While we may be able to absolve ourselves of personal wrongdoing, we still bear the scars of our duplicitous home towns in our souls.
Very eloquent, Mary Lois. Also, it is said that McGee also figured in Harper Lee's depiction of Tom and his being framed
Wow. Great work. Moving.
Thank you, Christine!
Not sure my trauma brain could handle reliving it! I already keep my therapist plenty busy. LOL.
I get it. As I write, I'm trying to find a balance between grandiosity and self-hate
Thanks for continuing to share the history that is hidden from most of us in white society. I grew up during this time period as well but in Iowa. I have a feeling there are thousand of hidden stories there as well. A few came out during this time when when my mother had a fellow worker spend nights at our home when the weather was to bad to travel. He was black, and a great guy with a lovely family. The neighbors where no as happy that my mother, a single woman with a young daughter at home would let him stay over night. They were in horror - we how ever had wonderful evening dinners with stories of family and history. So glad to have a mother who was open to giving people a helping hand.
Hello Joanne! I LOVE your mother! And what a wonderful story and testament to her humanity.
Jon, as always beautifully written, deeply insightful and authentically grounded in your own personal experience, making it all the more real for me.
Wow! Thank you so much, Kevin. You are eloquent even in your comments!