Let’s see now… for me this all started way back in 1955 when I was growing up on Long Island’s north shore in a small city named Glen Cove. It wasn’t that Glen Cove did not have its segregation problems simply by geography of being north of the Mason Dixon line. Its just that the form of that separateness was insidiously more difficult to detect.
True, the various neighborhoods were clearly marked by the delineations of such streets named Cottage Row in and around witch only black people lived and that conversely, streets such as mine named Chestnut Street were exclusively white. Although the public school was integrated long before the south was forced to the differences between the races were clearly marked by where each particular student sat in the classroom.
One late spring evening I finally got up the nerve to invite my first black friend, a classmate named Alexander, home with me. You see, for Alexander and me curiosity had gotten the best of us. On one hand I just had to know if his brown color continued under his clothing and likewise he just had to know if I was drawn like Mickey Mouse; with just the parts that showed in white while the remainder of me was really black.
Looking back at the shear silliness of that poser I must admit that what I really wanted to know was what and how much, in this case, didn’t meet the eye. I found out.
As we had just finished paying some rough sport I can still remember the intoxicating sent of our sweet summer sweat as we continued our trepid exploration.
Later on I was so happy about my new friend and that we shared some of the same interest I could not resist introducing him to some of my other friends.
I will never forget the glances of disgust as they backed away as they repulsed us both.
Confused, I approached my parents and introduced Alexander to them. In hushed tones they exclaimed that he should immediately leave and return to his home. With his head down and his eyes avoiding mine he left.
When he was gone I remember receiving a “lesson” in how inappropriate his presence in my home was. When I objected loudly to them I then received a beating that I would never forget. The only thing I learned that day was that I was determined to never, never let anyone tell me who my friends should be. I had remembered in that moment the one time my family took a long trip. A drive to Florida in 1953, as the system of interstate highways (a project started by President Eisenhower) had yet to be completed it meant the traveling of many a back road through Georgia. I remember at each restaurant we stopped at, signs on the public water fountains indicating just who may and who may not take a drink there. When I asked my mother about this I received the most distorted and convoluted explanation of the reasoning behind “separate but equal” that I have ever heard. I never forgot it.
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