Racism in my house

(note: I am refusing to use the term “African-American” for this piece. First of all, that term did not exist in the 1970’s. But most of all, someone forgot to tell me when being “black” was a bad thing.)

I’m not sure that, as kids, my brothers and I were ever given lectures about racism. Having grown up in Georgia in the seventies, racism certainly presented itself, but it seemed as if it was always one of those concepts that was just, well, understood. If my parents used the term “black”, it was used only as a physical description, not as an ethnic term. We made as much (or as little) fun of black people as we did anyone else.

Where we learned about the struggle was through sports and entertainment. When my father was a young man, he was a huge fan of many black bands that undoubtedly were kept from the mainstream because of their skin color. And of course, the first time my brothers and I heard their songs, they were sung by white artists. This used to piss him off to no end. When I started becoming a big music fan in elementary school, he made sure that I was very aware of where it all came from.

“Ray Charles is the king, don’t let anybody tell you different”

“If those guys were white, they’d have gone triple platinum by now”

“Who’s singin’ that? It sounded a whole lot better when (black guy)  sang it. This guy sucks.”

Dad gave very little credit to white rip off singers. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not THEIR fault. You’re up and coming, trying to make a name for yourself – suddenly you come across this great song that no one’s ever heard. I’d do it. But Dad was bent on giving credit where credit was due, and he took it personally. God forbid we sing a song by Pat Boone.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO SANG THAT FIRST? EVER HEAR OF LITTLE RICHARD? BOONE COULDN’T EVEN SING IN HIS BACK UP BAND!!!”

One time I dressed up as Elvis Presley and he took a slingshot and nailed me in the nads with my own pet rock. As he stood over me while I was writhing in pain, he growled “JAMES BROWN, YOUNG’UN, JAMES BROWN!!!”

Interestingly enough, as I got older and bought my own music, I found myself reading liner notes more and more. When you start to see “Holland/Dozier/Holland” on hard rock records, you begin to understand the influence of Motown.

Sports was a little different. As a kid in Atlanta, I never knew what kind of pressure that Hank Aaron was going through as he approached Babe Ruth’s home run record. Maybe because he didn’t want to ruin the innocence of it for me. All I know is, on the playground, EVERYONE wanted to be Hank Aaron. But I did know about Jackie Robinson. I asked my father once why he didn’t play sooner if he was so good. “Stupidity” was his answer.

The thing is, he never joined a march or participated in a sit in or anything like that. And it’s not like we sat at the dinner table and lamented about the plight of the black man. If there was a black person to be called out or ridiculed, he did it. And unlike, so many other grown men I remember, he did it without blaming his race. Dad taught us to look beyond and look through, but most of all, that a putz can come in any color, shape or form. Luckily, I don’t feel compelled to personally give reparations. Otherwise, I’d be standing next to a guy in the DMV line, listening to him complain – then give him $50 and say, “Sorry ‘bout your struggle, man”