After leaving Rigsby, I rarely had any contact with Black people for a very long time. I experienced the kind of white noise that can happen when we withdraw back into our white cocoon. It is segregation by choice, a white privilege—the privilege of forgetting.
Susan and I moved to the white side of town. Even though we didn’t make a lot of money, we still managed to move to a decent neighborhood and rent an apartment that was much nicer than what we had at Rigsby. It was in a small complex, about 100 units or so—and zero Black people. The reality—then and now—is that people of color with limited resources and options don’t have the luxury to just up and leave like we did. It takes a lot of planning and worn-out shoes just to get a leg up. Many white landlords resist “allowing” a Black family to move into a mostly white neighborhood. Their thinking: they don’t want to deal with complaints from other white tenants, or “if I let them move here, the next thing you know they’re bringing in their brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles...”— you get the picture. They don’t give real thought to what they’re saying or why there is a housing problem among a significant portion of the Black community. The white privileged person can so easily whitewash over their awareness of racial injustice.
I’ve thought about The Rigsby, and about Shelly, off and on throughout my life, especially at times in situations where I was keenly aware of the great racial divide. One such incident stands out from my late twenties.
By now it was the mid-eighties and I had long since left San Antonio, broken up with Susan, and moved back to Florida. After a few more exhausting and turbulent years, I met a girl named Buddy. We lived together for about six years. Buddy was from Orange Park, Florida. Her father, Jim, was a fierce, unapologetic racist from Alabama. He was a big, mean former Marine who had served in Vietnam, and he could get violent if provoked. It was a reality Buddy lived with. While she herself was never assaulted by her father, her mother, Carol, was. The day Buddy left for college, she privately said to her father, 'If you ever lay another finger on her, I'll kill you.' Incredibly, he believed her, and never touched her mother again. Carol had a fierceness all her own. She was in-your-face honest, loved to laugh, and was generous and kind. Like Jim, she was also from deep Alabama but wasn't the kind of racist that he was. She had a particular affection for Black athletes, and Buddy learned to have the same.
I find it unnerving that there are still so many white folk who admire Black athletes but wouldn’t dream of cozying up to any Black folks for a nice chat over a casual beer. Buddy and I weren’t immune. While watching college football, we’d point out “Bubba” on the defensive line, meaning he was a scary, giant black boy, sure to make the NFL just based on his size. In response to hearing a Black person speak “properly,” we’d jest in unison, “he ain’t from ‘round here.”
Jim and Carol lived on the water along state road 220 near Whitey's Fish Camp, not far from—no surprise—Green Cove Springs—remember, the racist township known for heavy KKK activity. They owned a small house at the end of one of the narrow coves that led out to the Great St. John's River. Buddy and I often spent the weekends out there. Most of the time you could find us sitting on the dock, chewing tobacco and drinking beer while pulling in catfish, way into the night. Sometimes Jim would take us out on the St. John's in his fast and fancy, metallic blue bass boat. We'd fish all day and would be so ready to get back to the house, clean fish and slug a few beers. One day on our way back, we were hauling ass as we pulled into the narrow creek that led to the cove and home.
As we approached one of the houses high up on the creek embankment, a man standing near the edge of his yard started waving his arms and shouting something we couldn’t hear over the roaring engine. When we got close enough we heard him shout, “Slow the fuck down!” Jim angrily slammed the throttle to the idle position, and Buddy and I lurched forward and back. Jim stood up and shouted, "What'd you say to me?" The man looked down at us in the boat from his yard above. He was loudly rambling on about people ‘round these parts knew better than to come into the cove at that speed. He and Jim started arguing about who lived where and who was in charge of the cove when, out of the blue, the man shouted to Jim, "Well, you ain't nothin' but a N-lover aren't ya!" That's about the worst thing you could call a white person, especially a racist from Alabama. "No I ain't!" Jim bellowed, pumping his fists downward like he was pushing on crutches. “Don't you EVER call me a N-lover, goddamnit! I'm a Marine and I'll fight alongside 'em, sit in a foxhole with 'em but I'll be damned if I'd ever let one sit at my table and eat."
I could hardly believe what happened next. Neither could Buddy. We were both shrinking in our seats from fear and embarrassment while they hollered. But as soon as Jim said that, the other man swayed back like a fat country sheriff and rocked from side to side. "We-e-ell aw'right then!" He yawped, admiring Jim with a big white grin and an approving nod. In a flash I watched two strangers, caught up in an angry escalating confrontation, suddenly morph into a couple of good ol’ boys yuckin’ it up over their shared bigotry. Their bond was spontaneous while they lynched their imaginary scapegoat; white dominance struck a common chord between them; neighborly harmony was restored without any comprehension of how they arrived.
Buddy and I stared at each other wide-eyed. We both knew better than to say a word. The weight of my silence hung over me like a wet blanket of shame. But I justified it that day because of my own fragile situation—challenging Jim would have put an end to my relationship with him. I was the only person that Buddy had ever brought home that her father liked, and that was supremely important to her. Jim and Carol treated me like I was their own, something I desperately needed at the time. I feel sad to admit that even though Jim was just as racist as my own father, I was able to excuse him. I’m not sure why. Was it because I was aware that Vietnam had done a number on his head, so who was I to lecture him about right and wrong? Was it because it would have put Buddy in an impossible position? I respected how much she loved her parents. Choosing silence didn’t really cost me much. Just the guilt that most white people have learned to paint over, to whitewash away.
Buddy and I sat quietly when Jim fired up the engine. Our silence made us complicit right there with those two men. Jim didn't say a word to us, just wagged his head and chuckled as he steered the boat home.
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