The Black Lives Matter slogan hanging on Plymouth Church in Des Moines, Iowa, and Drake college students actually protesting on behalf of black students, are encouraging. It took me back to another time and place.
East Texas Peach
"My mother allowed me to meet and play with two of the Blackwell kids in the shade of an old peach tree," said the Rev. Bill Cotton. (Wikimedia Commons Photo).
My roots grew out of the sandy land soil of East Texas. We lived on the old Cotton home place. As a preschooler there were no white kids for me to play with. Dave and Marie Blackwell and their twelve children lived nearby. They were African Americans, or “colored.” Halfway between our house and the Blackwell home was a peach orchard. My mother allowed me to meet and play with two of the Blackwell kids in the shade of an old peach tree.
My playmates were named Moses and Aaron. Dave and Marie Blackwell named all of their kids after bible characters. In those long summer days of the1940s we played marbles, ate peaches, learned to spit, sat and talked.
One conversation I will never forget. Moses said to me, “My daddy is older than your daddy. How come he has to call your daddy Mister Arthur and your daddy calls him Dave?” Then Moses said, “I ain’t never gonna call you Mister Bill.” At that point Aaron said, “Moses, you shut your mouth, or I will tell Mama.” I had not a clue, but things seemed different, distant after that.
In September I started to school. I remember asking my mother why Moses and Aaron didn’t go to school. She said they have their school. The “colored” school was near our farm. My mother became friends with the new African American teacher from “up north.” (Actually, she was probably from Iowa; anyone who lived above Missouri was considered up north or out east!)
In our white “separate but equal” school my mother knew that we were not learning much, so she would invite her new friend who had a daughter my sister’s age to our house, and we would learn together. I think that teacher gave me my love for books. One day the teacher was gone. I asked why, and my mother said some didn’t like her teaching and thought she was a bad influence. That was just the way it was. I didn’t understand but didn’t question it.
Soon we moved to a small town. In our school, everyone looked forward to the annual Lion’s Club minstrel show: thirty prominent white men with black face clowning on the school stage making fun of the African Americans, or “the colored.” I knew there was something wrong with all of that. My Methodist parents didn’t join with their neighbors in making fun of “the colored.” The N-word was not used in our house, but as a child I picked up all of the sayings and beliefs regarding people of color. The issue of color was the very air we breathed.
When I was eighteen I was drafted into the Army. That year President Truman had ended segregation in the military. That first day in El Paso they lined us recruits up in the hot sun and an officer greeted us. He said, “You white boys may not like being with Negro soldiers. But you should get used to it, and should you act on how you are feeling, we have a training program at Leavenworth, Kansas (meaning the federal prison there), and they have openings.” So we mostly got along!
Later as we left for Korea, I was assigned to a crew, two whites and four blacks. I learned that the myths about “the colored” when I grew up were just that – myths. After 18 months we came home together, landed in San Francisco, and six of us pooled our money, bought an old Ford, and set out for Dallas. We were in uniform and some of the black soldiers had medals down to their belts. On the road I suggested that we stop for food. My friend Ballard said, “Bill, we can’t go into these restaurants.” I said, “Why not?” “Bill, you know why and you need to shut up about this or we will get arrested.” Nor could they use the toilets at the gas station. I was doing a slow burn by the time we got to Dallas. My friends got to laughing about it, and began to say, “Poor old white boy, how does this make you feel?” Later when I was using my GI bill to enroll in college, my friend Ballard called to say they wouldn’t accept him, he would have to go to the black college.
As I entered seminary at SMU, I discovered that I was angry most of the time because of the old spooky "colored" thing that would not go away. I joined with others to work for equal rights. When we tried unsuccessfully to integrate the emergency room at Methodist Hospital (“the colored” were not allowed), that was something of the last straw. So when I graduated, I moved to Iowa. Later I became the first executive secretary for the newly formed Human Rights Commission in Cedar Rapids. I learned two things that seem relevant to our current struggle with the outward resurgence of racism:
1) To be white in America means that we have what I would call a visibility problem. We are conditioned to see color before we see the person. This is true for liberal and conservative. No one escapes the visibility issue in America. This in and of itself is not a bad thing – it just is. The problem is the negative meaning of “color” we’ve been taught and continue to perpetuate, consciously and unconsciously, as if it’s true.
2) Our visibility problem is very real, and we white folks can (and must) change. It’s a bit like recovering from an addiction.We have to think differently about our life together. We have to quit our denial – go cold turkey. This is a long road but we must change our direction. If we acknowledge our addiction of thought, things can be different. And we must stop enabling this “addiction” through our silence and lack of action.
The last time I saw Dave Blackwell was on a cold morning, when he knocked on our door. Over coffee we learned that Marie had died in the night and Dave needed help. My dad went to our church and found some money. Then he helped Dave dig a grave in the “colored” cemetery.
My dad didn’t participate in the civil rights marches, nor did he condone the constant ridicule of “the colored.” He believed being a Christian meant being a good neighbor, and that the serious Christian will look past color, in the search for human decency.
That old peach tree is no longer standing, but for me it remains sign and symbol of the human struggle. And I think, Why should we let our thoughts about pigmentation keep us from loving each other? Black Lives Matter is more than a slogan. For the time being, it is a watchword for all of us who would build a new inclusive community.
The Rev. William D. Cotton of Des Moines, Iowa, is a retired clergy member of the Iowa Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. This article is published here with the author's permission.