The Color of Politics

In April of 1962 I went with my family to Florida for Spring Break. My dad was a pilot and we flew to Ft. Lauderdale in our own airplane. Since we frequently traveled out of state like this, I took it for granted. I hadn’t yet realized that I was a child of privilege and that most people did not live like this. I was about as naïve as any kid could be.

Among the many things I didn’t know was the extent to which blacks were being discriminated against right here in the United States. In school we studied that the Emancipation Proclamation that Abraham Lincoln had issued in 1863 had guaranteed their equality. But, having freedom on paper wasn’t quite the same as being able to live freely with dignity.

Mostly through church affiliations my parents and my grandparents had friends that just happened to be black. I had friends at school that just happened to be black. To me this was all quite normal. To the best of my knowledge I didn’t know anyone who was a racist.

I had heard the “N” word used in reference to blacks by whites that I considered to be low-class. I was aware that something in the south was stirring called Civil Rights, but really had no idea what it was all about. Like most kids, whatever was on the nightly news was of little interest to me. But, my protected, insular world was about to be invaded by a dose of harsh reality.

We took off about 7:00 a.m. from the small airport in Romeo, Michigan where Dad kept our plane hangered. We landed at the airport in Macon, Georgia that afternoon to refuel and get something to eat. Mom and my sisters headed for the terminal restaurant while Dad supervised the refueling.

I loved these stops at airports that I had never been to before. I headed for the hangers to see what planes were being stored or worked on. I promised Dad that I would join them at the restaurant in about twenty minutes.

The mechanics in the hangers were friendly enough and answered whatever questions popped into my head. I was satisfied with my little exploration; so I decided I’d better get on over to the restaurant.

As I was leaving the hanger I saw a sign that said, “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing down a sidewalk along the side of the building. I had to go so I headed down the walkway. I saw the word Men on a door that was half open. As I walked in I barely noticed a sign above the doorway.

I only got a few feet into the room when I stopped. A feeling came over me like something was very, very wrong. But, I didn’t know what it was. I turned and walked out of the room back onto the sidewalk. I looked up at the sign that was over the doorway. It just said, “COLORED”.

Confused, I stood there staring at it for several moments. Does that mean what I think it means? I turned to look at the doorway that was behind me on the other side of the walkway. Above that men’s room door it said, “White Only”. I opened the door and looked in. It had fresh paint on the walls and appeared to be very clean. The other bathroom was dirty and in a state of disrepair.

I felt a little wave of nausea come over me. So, is this what racial discrimination looks like? Is this for real? They can’t do that, can they? I decided not to use either restroom and walked on to the restaurant. I did not share this experience my parents. As is my way, even to this day, I withdraw when something really bothers me.

Over the last 46 years, I’ve thought of this incident many times. I remember this as a day that I lost a large piece of my childhood innocence. From that day forward, I began to notice the ugly things in life.

The evening news became something of interest to me. I became more aware of the struggle that blacks faced to gain equality. I became aware of the leaders in the civil rights movement. I was there in downtown Detroit that hot summer day in 1967 when the riots began. I saw how sorrow had turned to anger, anger had turned to rage, and the rage could no longer be contained.

I remember feeling admiration for those brave souls that marched in Selma. I remember feeling out rage when the police beat them to the ground, turned the dogs loose on them, and blasted them with fire hoses. I remembered feeling stunned and saddened when that church was bombed and four innocent little girls were killed. I couldn’t imagine hatred on a scale of that magnitude.

I remember being fascinated by the bravery of Rosa Parks. This was one gutsy little lady whose single refusal to submit fueled a movement that brought a major southern city to a standstill. Shortly before she died, she became my hero when I heard her being interviewed. The interviewer asked her, “What is it like to be a considered a champion of the civil rights movement here in America”? She laughed and in a small, frail voice said, “It really wasn’t like that. I had had a long hard day and was just too tired to get up and move to the back of the bus”. What awesome and rare humility!

As you are well aware, Barack Obama is running for President of the United States. As you are well aware, Barack Obama is black. In my mind, this makes it the most fascinating presidential election in American history.

I will probably not vote for Mr. Obama. Not because he is black, but simply because our politics just don’t align. Were he to join the NRA and show some sincere concern for the small business owner, I might be swayed in his direction. He wouldn’t even have to shoot a moose! I’m easy.

If Barack Obama should happen to win this election, all black parents could at last tell their children that, “This is America, you can become anything you want to become, even President of the United States”! And, they could point to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as proof.

Of all the things I like to do, target shooting and hunting are near the top of the list. Most of these activities I do with a friend that just happens to be black. Even though we spend a lot of time together, we don’t get into deep philosophical conversations about politics, religion, or race. We’re just a couple of old farts that enjoy each other’s company.

Coming home from a hunting trip last Saturday, with our usual bag limit of ….nothing, I asked him for some help with this story that you’re now reading. I told him when I was a boy; blacks were referred to as Negro or Colored. Now it’s either Afro-American, black, or Black. (No, that isn’t a typo.) “What is proper?” I asked him. He said, “I don’t know, it all depends on the situation or who is talking to whom about what”. I asked, “What do you prefer?” He said, “Why don’t you just call me Paul?”

Hey Paul, that works for me.