It was 1972 when I entered the 6th grade. That was the year desegregation became full law in Jacksonville, Florida. We lived in Duval county and the only options to busing were to move to another county or go to private school. My local school, before this law, was 3 blocks up the street. When busing became law, my neighborhood was to be bussed 30 miles across town to the 6th grade center, Rufus Payne, an all Black school. I was nervous, but not as scared as some of the kids. I was very curious about the whole thing, and I thought the long bus ride would be fun.
My first day at Rufus Payne did not go well. The white kids kept looking at one another, signaling each other, not wanting to make trouble. We’d seen the race riots on TV but didn’t know what might set the Black kids off. They taunted us and got a kick out of getting a rise from us. Because of this, I got in a fight that very first day with a group of Black boys. All I remember was how much they laughed when I swung my fists and tried to kick them Kung Fu style.
When I take a moment to close my eyes and remember this era, I’m struck by how grown up those Black kids were. They seemed to know something white kids didn’t know. They were wise beyond their years, like little adults running around in 6th grader bodies. They already knew things about life that none of us white kids would ever know.
I remember the Black kids asking, “Where do you stay?” When I asked my parents why they asked that in such an odd way, they didn’t know why or understand either. Only much later in life did it dawn on me. Housing was so often difficult for the Black population. Sometimes their only option was to “stay” with relatives or friends. It was perfectly normal for them to ask where I stayed and to tell me where they stayed. Sadly, we still have a lot of housing problems today because of discrimination.*
Soon after we arrived at Rufus Payne we learned that the racial mix was now 60/40, majority black. I have a distinct memory of the principal coming into our class, looking around and nodding, “This is a well integrated class.” Conspicuously stretching my neck, I looked around the room and smirked, then stared at him. He was Black, and I didn’t like him, nor did I appreciate his assessment.
One day, for whatever reason, our teacher needed to briefly leave the classroom. In those few minutes I got into a fight with a Black boy who picked me up and threw me down on a table. I landed right in the middle of my back and it hurt. With all the ruckus, teachers came running into the room. The principal was not far behind. He took the boy and me outside to talk to us. I said, “That N…. nearly broke my back on a table. He started it!” The principal stiffened and glared at me, turned his back and ordered both of us to follow him to his office. The boy taunted and laughed at me behind the principal's back. When we got to the office, the principal announced to the staff that I called the boy a N…., to which I protested, trying to explain what happened. No one cared. I was blamed for the matter for using that word, and nothing else was addressed. I was so upset.
What's interesting about this encounter was how quickly I called the boy the N word. There wasn't the slightest bit of hesitation. It was an instinctive response, evidence that white supremacy was already ingrained in me. In my young mind, I had reached for racial power. I needed to assert white dominance, believing that my word carried far more weight than the Black boy's. My anger at not being believed, not even being listened to because of my use of the racial slur, ignited a flame that awaited in my soul like a pilot light. Today, that pilot light still glows in white America, maybe not always in outright racial slurs, but in the automatic ways we question Black authority or expect white perspectives to take precedence over black ones.
The school called my parents that day and my mother made the drive across town to pick me up. When my father got home from work I relayed the story to him. His anger neared white hot rage. Pacing the floor, he said, “I have to do something. We have to move.” And that’s what we did, along with thousands of other parents in the same boat.
Footnotes
*See Supplement titled: Housing Discrimination - Examples of Current Challenges
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