Looking back over my posts from the last couple weeks, I notice that the topic of racism and intolerance has come up a few times. (1)(2)(3) That observation put the topic in my mind and prompted me to reread John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me last night. I also pulled it off the shelf because my daughter’s thirteen and I think it's time she read it.
If you’ve never read this book, Black Like Me is a story about Griffin’s experiences as a black man traveling the Deep South in 1959. What’s particularly compelling about his tale is that Griffin was white. Two seemingly contradictory sentences, which are central to the appeal of Black Like Me.
Griffin was a white man who, compelled by some inner drive, chose to alter his appearance so that he would be taken for black and then traveled the South to experience racism first-hand. Now, it’s been argued that the story of racism in America can’t be told by a white man, that a black man is more able to tell it, and I agree with that to a certain extent. Griffin spent very little time in his guise and always knew he could stop at any time and go back to his previous life – a black man has infinitely more to draw on to tell this story and he can’t quit any time he wants.
But it’s that very fact that makes Black Like Me more compelling to me. Each incident of racism and intolerance that Griffin encounters in his travels is new to his world-view. Each experience cuts fresh and unexpectedly, whereas someone who’s been forced to deal with it their entire life might be somewhat inured. That freshness of the wounds comes across to the reader as Griffin recounts each new outrage – new to him, but that blacks of the time lived with every day of their lives.
After reading the book, I reflected on the topic and the fact that things have changed. It occurred to me that, in my lifetime (I’m 41), I’ve never personally seen the kind of overt racism that was common and accepted in 1959. I never went to a school that didn’t allow both black and white students, have never seen a restroom or a drinking fountain labeled “Whites Only” and have never been to a restaurant that openly denied service to blacks.
My personal experience with civil rights marches and protests is very, very different than that of the sixties. In 1995, the Ku Klux Klan came to town to gather outside the Jewish Community Center in Maitland. I heard about it on a local radio show and went to join the counter-protest.
When I arrived, I discovered that my presence was a drop in the bucket. Twelve or so Klan-members stood in a line, backs to a row of trees. In front of them, twenty feet of open space to the police barricades and surrounding that on three sides … twelve hundred people stood in opposition.
I had expected to feel anger and hatred toward the Klan, but as I looked around and took in the whole picture, that changed. The Klan stood there, in their robes and pointy hats – no hoods, because of laws about covered faces in public, I presume – and holding their poster-board signs, the messages are lost to me, I didn’t pay them that much attention. The crowd shook their fists and yelled at them; the Klan yelled back.
I doubt they’d have been so cocky without the police-presence, though. That crowd was angry and ready to turn into a mob. Given the opportunity, I doubt a single Klansman would have escaped alive.
I realized that’s what they wanted. That’s what they were after. They got off on the reaction of the crowd. Like an annoying little brother who pokes his sister to get a reaction, the Klan had been reduced to inciting others because they had so little power left on their own. Still evil, but impotent (in more ways than one, I'm sure).
They weren’t even worthy of anger any more, just pity and ridicule. I often wish that I’d had a megaphone to speak to that crowd and convince them of that. I think that if that throng had, as one, pointed at those pitiful, robed figures and, as one, quoted Nelson from the Simpson’s in a full-throated “Hah, hah!”, it would have had more impact than the shouted hatred.
What did happen, though, was probably better.
I was near the front of the crowd at the barricade when I noticed movement to my right and a Man made his way through the crowd.
I name him with a capital-M because he deserves it.
He didn’t push his way through the crowd and I didn’t see him say a single word to those around him, he just stepped forward and, as people noticed him they got out of his way. This Man had presence.
He was a black Man, older, probably in his sixties. Gray hair cut short and a wrinkled, weathered face. He was big … not tall or fat, but big, solid.
He wore a brown suit with dark pinstripes, double-breasted. Not fancy or stylish, but something from the days when men wore suits as a matter of course. Looking at him, I could tell that this was his suit. Not one of a dozen in his closet, but his suit. The suit he wore to church, to funerals, to weddings … this was the suit he wore to the big events in his life, to the important things. A bit worn, perhaps, but still clean and pressed, shoes shined and on his head a brown fedora with a black band and tiny, red feather.
In 1995, a man in fedora would have to be considered anachronistic and maybe a bit pretentious, but on this Man it looked right. His style of dress had been set in another time and he remained unchanged by the whims of fashion.
I wondered what he’d do, because he was old enough to have experienced the power the Klan wielded in the South first-hand. If he was in his sixties, then he would have been a child in the thirties and forties. He might have known someone targeted by the Klan in those days, a friend or even a family member who’d been injured or killed by them. More than might, probably had.
He walked up to the police barricade, paused, nodded to the nearest officer and stepped through. The officer didn’t say a word to him.
He strode slowly toward the line of Klansmen, not looking at them, and stopped less than an arm-length away. Then he turned parallel to them … and walked.
For a very long time he walked, back and forth in front of their line. He kept his gaze straight ahead and never said a word out loud that I saw.
Those Klansmen …
When the crowd had been yelling at them, they were having fun. They smiled and grinned and yelled back. Once that Man started his steady pacing in front of them, they weren’t having any fun. Their eyes narrowed, their jaws clenched. They hated that Man.
Without a single, spoken word, his stoic dignity sent them a message that they got loud and clear, a message that cut like a dagger in their guts and every step he took drove that message home again. I suppose it’s open to interpretation, but the message I saw him send was:
“You’ve lost. For all your efforts, for all your trying, you’ve lost.
“There was a time when I had reason to fear you, but that fear is gone.
“There was a time when you had power, but that time is past.
“There was a time when a crowd like this would have been here to support you, but that support is over.
“There was a time when those police would have hit me over the head and given me to you, but now they’re here because it’s you who needs protection.
“I am a proud, dignified, black Man. I survived everything you and your kind could do to me and mine and you have lost.”
The image of that Man’s dignity and pride has stayed with me for over a decade now and I think the message I got from him is correct: they lost.
The things he must have experienced and survived are of the past, they exist in people’s memories, but simply don’t happen any longer.
Yes, there are still incidents, but they’re aberrations, tragic for the victims’ families, but not the norm in our society. They happen because men like those Klan-members do still exist, but the reaction of society is different. Today the perpetrators are typically caught and convicted; in other times, the local sheriff might have been under one of the hoods. There’s a difference.
This isn’t to say that racism no longer exists. I think it does, but it’s more subtle – it’s not the overt, violent racism of the past.
I remember seeing a segment on one of the news magazine shows, probably 20/20, years ago where they used a hidden camera in retail stores. They sent in two young men, one white and one black, dressed similarly, and recorded the level of customer service each received. The black man received more attention from security than the retail clerks.
I was shocked and surprised, because I couldn’t imagine corporate America seeing any color other than green. After some thought, I came to the conclusion that it's probably not a corporate policy, but the ignorant, bigoted actions of a few stupid employees -- or many of them, since there are a lot of stupid people in the world
I'd actually like to try the same experiment myself, because I know how the media can manipulate a story and how preconceived notions can influence a study. In fact, I might do so ... I had a lot of fun with my afternoon at the rip-off gas station. It'll take a bit more planning than the gas station, but I think I'll be finding a couple students from the university, grabbing my camera and heading for the mall, soon. A little hidden-camera work's in order.