Oh, Jonathan! You just told a vignette of my life, and you did it beautifully. To this day I remember my Dad stopping at the Post Office to say hello to his friend Dave Sanders, an African-American man who was a little older than my Dad. Mr. Sanders was red-haired and very dusky white looking to me. I was about six years old. Dave and my Dad had worked together on a road crew before my Dad went to college. Dave’s teenage daughters, all absolute knockout beauties, had been my favorite babysitters. One of those sweet girls taught me a few dance steps, and I remember feeling like a big boy, learning how to dance!
After a very friendly catching up with an old friend kind of conversation, my Dad told Dave goodbye and shook his hand. I wanted to do it , too, saying brightly, “It was good to meet you, Mr. Sanders.”
On the way home, I could see that my Dad had an earnest look on his face. Not the same casual face that just bantered around old times with his old friend. He said I didn’t have to call Dave Sanders “Mister.” I asked Dad why. He explained that Dave was a colored man. This didn’t help, and I told Dad I didn’t understand because Mr. Sanders looked white to me. It’s almost comical now, but the troubled look on Dad’s face made it not funny when he said, “Dave Sanders is a colored man, and sometimes colored people don’t look completely black, so you can call him Uncle Dave if you want to, but not Mister Dave.” I accepted that, but I still didn’t understand.
Reflecting on our lives in the south is necessary. And poignant. And we have so many amends to make. I think the richness of Mississippi’s treasure of people relations may be a reason we might just have a chance.
Mary and I love everything you write and treasure you guys. Hope you will come see us when down this way.
Thank you so much for those kind words, Leonard, and especially for sharing your story. I guess every Southerner of our age (maybe even today) has a story about when they first bumped into the schizophrenic symptoms of our surroundings and then had to make some accommodations if we were to “belong.” I just had a note for a man in Ellisville who was reprimanded as a child for referring to his maid as a “lady.” There are so many ways racism is inserted into our thinking even before we can reason.
Oh, Jonathan! You just told a vignette of my life, and you did it beautifully. To this day I remember my Dad stopping at the Post Office to say hello to his friend Dave Sanders, an African-American man who was a little older than my Dad. Mr. Sanders was red-haired and very dusky white looking to me. I was about six years old. Dave and my Dad had worked together on a road crew before my Dad went to college. Dave’s teenage daughters, all absolute knockout beauties, had been my favorite babysitters. One of those sweet girls taught me a few dance steps, and I remember feeling like a big boy, learning how to dance!
After a very friendly catching up with an old friend kind of conversation, my Dad told Dave goodbye and shook his hand. I wanted to do it , too, saying brightly, “It was good to meet you, Mr. Sanders.”
On the way home, I could see that my Dad had an earnest look on his face. Not the same casual face that just bantered around old times with his old friend. He said I didn’t have to call Dave Sanders “Mister.” I asked Dad why. He explained that Dave was a colored man. This didn’t help, and I told Dad I didn’t understand because Mr. Sanders looked white to me. It’s almost comical now, but the troubled look on Dad’s face made it not funny when he said, “Dave Sanders is a colored man, and sometimes colored people don’t look completely black, so you can call him Uncle Dave if you want to, but not Mister Dave.” I accepted that, but I still didn’t understand.
Reflecting on our lives in the south is necessary. And poignant. And we have so many amends to make. I think the richness of Mississippi’s treasure of people relations may be a reason we might just have a chance.
Mary and I love everything you write and treasure you guys. Hope you will come see us when down this way.
Thank you so much for those kind words, Leonard, and especially for sharing your story. I guess every Southerner of our age (maybe even today) has a story about when they first bumped into the schizophrenic symptoms of our surroundings and then had to make some accommodations if we were to “belong.” I just had a note for a man in Ellisville who was reprimanded as a child for referring to his maid as a “lady.” There are so many ways racism is inserted into our thinking even before we can reason.