My brother and sister did not have the same experience as I did in the early 70s. They had already left home by then. My parents and I moved to Middleburg in nearby Clay County to escape integration. Clay County had no desegregation law. It also had very few Black citizens. I remember only one Black boy in my new 6th grade class. He was tall, fit, and an excellent athlete so naturally he was treated with respect by both students and teachers. I sigh out loud today at that notion. I am embarrassed and agitated by the way we still celebrate Black athletes, but so often ignore the other enormous contributions and achievements by Black americans.* I can share too many examples in my life where the only arena we white folks felt happy to support and encourage Black achievements was in sports or entertainment. It’s better now than it used to be due to those of us who work to raise awareness. But we still have a long way to go.
Clay County didn’t really have any Black neighborhoods. We didn’t see many Black faces in public spaces either. Why would there be? I would imagine that most of the Black population were well aware of their unwanted presence in Clay County. The only Black community I knew about was in a small neighboring township called Green Cove Springs. The one short strip where Black people lived was very poor and run down. I have vivid memories of driving past that area, staring and wondering about their lives. Green Cove Springs also has a history of Klan activity, ranking number four on a list of the top ten most racist places in Florida. I remember hearing a person from there once saying to me, “We like to keep our N… in line.”
When I was in high school in Clay County, there was some racial tension, but the Blacks and whites mostly avoided one another. The Black kids were also greatly outnumbered. I dare say the white kids embraced the dominance our parents gave us by moving there.
Gym class was one place where the Black girls showed their own dominance. They always seemed ready to play rough with the white girls. One day we were playing flag football. I don’t know why but for some unfathomable reason the two gym teachers decided to divide the teams by race. I was a pretty good defensive player who could rush the line with nearly 100% success of sacking the quarterback, or at least busting the line enough so someone else could. This infuriated the Black girls so they started jeering, calling me Rushie. “Rushie thinks she’s bad. You think you’re bad don’t you, Rushie,” they sneered.
When the coaches blew the whistle for us to wrap up and head to the locker room, a group of Black girls began to stare at me. They circled me and started shoving and taunting me, “What you gonna do now, Rushie?”
I stood up to them. “Are you really going to beat me up just because I’m good at rushing and grabbing your flag?” As I turned to walk away they taunted and shoved me a few more times. I turned back and stared hard into every one of their eyes, then turned again and kept walking.
One of the teachers came running up to me to ask me what just happened. I looked over at the Black girls then back at her. I shrugged and shook my head, “Nothing.”
“You can tell me and they’ll get in trouble. What happened?” She asked, signaling the white know.
“No, really, nothing happened.” I said blankly.
She stepped back and studied me for a moment, then sighed, shook her head and walked on mumbling something I couldn’t hear.
Once the teacher was out of ear shot, the group of girls jogged to catch up to me. They were amazed.
“Why didn’t you squeal on us? You didn’t rat us out! You alright, Rushie!”
They all nodded and laughed and then went on their way like nothing had happened. And that was that.
I don’t know why I didn’t snitch. Was I afraid of what might happen later, or did the gleam in my teacher’s eye irritate me more than the girls did? I can’t say for sure, probably a little of both.
When I sat down to write this chapter about my family's white flight, I was struck by how abruptly our lives changed. Everything slowed to a turtle’s pace. Once we took our rightful place in the suburban sprawl, we never gave Black people much thought again. We didn’t have to worry anymore. “Those” people weren't going to move out to Middleburg where we were. After all, Green Cove Springs was only about 15 or so miles up the road and they sure didn’t want anything to do with that town.
Other than the high school incident, which happened several years after we moved to Clay County, I don't remember any encounters at all with Black folks. The only time I remember talking about Black people was when we talked about cousin Peggy who lived in Atlanta. She had laid with a Black man and had a Black child. And occasionally, the more villainess boys at school grinned at each other and darted their eyes when they talked about going “‘coon huntin.’” What kind of fathers raised these boys? The same kind of father that raised parents just like mine, going all the way back to the 1600s.
Footnotes:
*See Supplement titled: Black American Achievements 1960s to Present
No comments:
Post a Comment