Good Morning Everyone,
Wow, what a day yesterday, still glowing from everything!~!
OK, it just never ceases to amaze me, I look and I look for a great story, or I find one but cannot seem to find just how to tie it into our little world here. But, every time I am about ready to just give up looking or trying and settle for mediocre, Bamm, the perfect solution just jumps out of nowhere!!
JJJ,"Jack, one thing I have to say. Sometimes its bad being good!" I wish you had meant this as a jest, but somehow I just do not think you did. It is not always profitable to be good, it is not always popular being good, but it "Is" always best to be good!!!
Todays story: (long)
A Mason-Dixon Memory
Dondre Green glanced uneasily at the civic leaders and
sports figures filling the hotel ballroom in Cleveland. They
had come from across the nation to attend a fund-raiser for
the National Minority College Golf Scholarship Foundation. I
was the banquet's featured entertainer. Dondre, an 18-year-
old high school senior from Monroe, Louisiana, was the
evening's honored guest.
"Nervous?" I asked the handsome young man in his
starched white shirt and rented tuxedo.
"A little," he whispered, grinning.
One month earlier, Dondre had been just one more black
student attending a predominately white school. Although
most of his friends and classmates were white, Dondre's race
was never an issue. Then, on April 17, l991, Dondre's black
skin provoked an incident that made nationwide news.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the emcee said, "our special
guest, Dondre Green."
As the audience stood applauding, Dondre walked to the
microphone and began his story. "I love golf," he said
quietly. "For the past two years, I've been a member of the
St. Frederick High School golf team. And though I was the
only black member, I've always felt at home playing at
mostly white country clubs across Louisiana."
The audience leaned forward; even the waiters and
busboys stopped to listen. As I listened, a memory buried in
my heart since childhood fought its way to life.
"Our team had driven from Monroe," Dondre continued.
"When we arrived at the Caldwell Parish Country Club in
Columbia, we walked to the putting green."
Dondre and his teammates were too absorbed to notice
the conversation between a man and St. Frederick athletic
director James Murphy. After disappearing into the
clubhouse, Murphy returned to his players.
"I want to see the seniors," he said. "On the double!"
His face seemed strained as he gathered the four students,
including Dondre.
"I don't know how to tell you this," he said, "but the
Caldwell Parish Country Club is reserved for whites only."
Murphy paused and looked at Dondre. His teammates glanced at
each other in disbelief.
"I want you seniors to decide what our response should
be," Murphy continued. "If we leave, we forfeit this
tournament. If we stay, Dondre can't play."
As I listened, my own childhood memory from 32 years
ago broke free.
In 1959, I was 13 years old, a poor black kid living
with my mother and stepfather in a small black ghetto on
Long Island, New York. My mother worked nights in a
hospital, and my stepfather drove a coal truck. Needless to
say, our standard of living was somewhat short of the
American dream.
Nevertheless, when my eighth-grade teacher announced a
graduation trip to Washington, D.C., it never crossed my
mind that I would be left behind. Besides a complete tour of
the nation's capital, we would visit Glen Echo Amusement
Park in Maryland. In my imagination, Glen Echo was
Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm and Magic Mountain rolled
into one.
My heart beating wildly, I raced home to deliver the
mimeographed letter describing the journey. But when my
mother saw how much the trip cost, she just shook her head.
We couldn't afford it.
After feeling sad for 10 seconds, I decided to try to
fund the trip myself. For the next eight weeks, I sold candy
bars door-to-door, delivered newspapers and mowed lawns,
Three days before the deadline, I'd made just barely enough.
I was going!
The day of the trip, trembling with excitement, I
climbed onto the train. I was the only nonwhite in our
section.
Our hotel was not far from the White House. My roommate
was Frank Miller, the son of a businessman. Leaning together
out of our window and dropping water balloons on tourists
quickly cemented our new friendship.
Every morning, almost a hundred of us loaded noisily
onto our bus for another adventure. We sang our school fight
song dozens of times, en route to Arlington National
Cemetery and even on an afternoon cruise down the Potomac
River.
We visited the Lincoln Memorial twice, once in
daylight, the second time at dusk. My classmates and I fell
silent as we walked in the shadows of those 36 marble
columns, one for every state in the Union that Lincoln
labored to preserve. I stood next to Frank at the base of
the 19-foot seated statue. Spotlights made the white
Georgian marble glow. Together, we read those famous words
from Lincoln's speech at Gettysburg remembering the most
bloody battle in the War between the States: "...we here
highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -
that this nation, under God shall have a new birth of
freedom..."
As Frank motioned me into place to take my picture, I
took one last look at Lincoln's face. He seemed alive and so
terribly sad.
The next morning, I understood a little better why he
wasn't smiling. "Clifton," a chaperone said, "could I see
you for a moment?"
The other guys at my table, especially Frank, turned
pale. We had been joking about the previous night's direct
water-balloon hit on a fat lady and her poodle. It was a
stupid, dangerous act, but luckily nobody got hurt. We were
celebrating our escape from punishment when the chaperone
asked to see me.
"Clifton," she began, "do you know about the Mason-
Dixon line?"
"No," I said, wondering what this had to do with
drenching fat ladies.
"Before the Civil War," she explained, "the Mason-Dixon
line was originally the boundary between Maryland and
Pennsylvania - the dividing line between the slave and free
states." Having escaped one disaster, I could feel another
brewing. I noticed that her eyes were damp and her hands
were shaking.
"Today," she continued, "the Mason-Dixon line is a kind
of invisible border between the North and the South. When
you cross that invisible line out of Washington, D.C., into
Maryland, things change."
There was an ominous drift to this conversation, but I
wasn't following it. Why did she look and sound so nervous?
"Glen Echo Amusement Park is in Maryland," she said at
last, "and the management doesn't allow Negroes inside." She
stared at me in silence.
I was still grinning and nodding when the meaning
finally sank in.
"You mean I can't go to the park," I stuttered,
"because I'm a Negro?"
She nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, Clifton," she said,
taking my hand.
"You'll have to stay in the hotel tonight. Why don't
you and I watch a movie on television?"
I walked to the elevators feeling confusion, disbelief,
anger and a deep sadness. "What happened, Clifton?" Frank
said when I got back to the room. "Did the fat lady tell on
us?"
Without saying a word, I walked over to my bed, lay
down and cried. Frank was stunned into silence. Junior-high
boys didn't cry, at least not in front of each other.
It wasn't just missing the class adventure that made me
feel so sad.
For the first time in my life, I learned what it felt
like to be a "nigger."
Of course there was discrimination in the North, but
the color of my skin had never officially kept me out of a
coffee shop, a church - or an amusement park.
"Clifton," Frank whispered, "what is the matter?"
"They won't let me to go Glen Echo Park tonight," I
sobbed.
"Because of the water balloon?" he asked.
"No, I answered, "because I'm a Negro."
"Well, that's a relief!" Frank said, and then he
laughed, obviously relieved to have escaped punishment for
our caper with the balloons. "I thought it was serious."
Wiping away the tears with my sleeve, I stared at him.
"It is serious. They don't let Negroes into the park. I
can't go with you!" I shouted. "That's pretty damn serious
to me."
I was about to wipe the silly grin off Frank's face
with a blow to his jaw when I heard him say, "Then I won't
go either."
For an instant we just froze. Then Frank grinned. I
will never forget that moment. Frank was just a kid. He
wanted to go to that amusement park as much as I did, but
there was something even more important than the class night
out. Still, he didn't explain or expand.
The next thing I knew, the room was filled with kids
listening to Frank. "They don't allow Negroes in the park,"
he said, "so I'm staying with Clifton."
"Me, too," a second boy said.
"Those jerks," a third muttered. "I'm with you,
Clifton." My heart raced. Suddenly, I was not alone. A pint-
sized revolution had been born. The "water-balloon brigade,"
11 white boys from Long Island, had made its decision: "We
won't go." And as I sat on my bed in the center of it all, I
felt grateful. But, above all, I was filled with pride.
Dondre Green's story brought that childhood memory back
to life. His golfing teammates, like my childhood friends,
faced an important decision. If they stood by their friend
it would cost them dearly. But when it came time to decide,
no one hesitated.
"Let's get out of here," one of them whispered.
"They just turned and walked toward the van," Dondre
told us. "They didn't debate it. And the younger players
joined us without looking back."
Dondre was astounded by the response of his friends -
and the people of Louisiana. The whole state was outraged
and tried to make it right. The Louisiana House of
Representatives proclaimed a Dondre Green Day and passed
legislation permitting lawsuits for damages, attorneys' fees
and court costs against any private facility that invites a
team, then bars any member because of race.
As Dondre concluded, his eyes glistened with tears. "I
love my coach and my teammates for sticking by me," he said.
"It goes to show that there always good people who will not
give in to bigotry. The kind of love they showed me that day
will conquer hatred every time."
My friends, too, had shown that kind of love. As we sat
in the hotel, a chaperone came in waving an envelope.
"Boys!" he shouted. "I've just bought 13 tickets to the
Senators-Tigers game. Anybody want to go?"
The room erupted in cheers. Not one of us had ever been
to a professional baseball game in a real baseball park.
On the way to the stadium, we grew silent as our driver
paused before the Lincoln Memorial. For one long moment, I
stared through the marble pillars at Mr. Lincoln, bathed in
that warm, yellow light. There was still no smile and no
sign of hope in his sad and tired eyes.
"...We here highly resolve...that this nation, under
God, shall have a new birth of freedom..."
In his words and in his life, Lincoln made it clear,
that freedom is not free. Every time the color of a person's
skin keeps him out of an amusement park or off a country-
club fairway, the war for freedom begins again. Sometimes
the battle is fought with fists and guns, but more often the
most effective weapon is a simple act of love and courage.
Whenever I hear those words from Lincoln's speech at
Gettysburg, I remember my 11 white friends, and I feel hope
once again. I like to imagine that when we paused that night
at the foot of his great monument, Mr. Lincoln smiled at
last.
By Clifton Davis
Have a great 4th everyone, stay safe and sane!!!
wb |
