It was just after dinner time at our house. The time of the evening when my dad would settle comfortably into his easy chair, pick up the latest Mickey Spillane thriller he happened to be reading, and make it known that for a few hours he expected to have a little peace and quiet. The constant squabbling of my younger sister and me, plus dealing with a seventeen year old daughter who pretty much knew everything, made peace and quiet an impossible request.
The time would have been in the early sixties and I was eleven years old. A time of political unrest, and a time when racial tension was beginning to grip the nation. For the most part our little community, and our little family, was insulated from most of it, although it was apparent from the six o'clock news stories that it was becoming an issue that would eventually affect us all.
But, here in our little home, all was well....
We didn't have a doorbell so most people who came calling would open the screen door and rap on the flimsy wooden door to get our attention. Bam, bam, bam.....Dad laid down his book and looked around the room to see who would answer the knock at the door. I glanced out the window and knew it was trouble, but my little sister was already opening the door. "I'm here to talk to Rocky Marciano". It was my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Grundy, and though my parents didn't, I knew exactly why he was here.
Earlier that day, there had been an "incident" at school, and I was, shall we say, involved. Ronnie and I had been at each other for a few days, nothing major, just an occasional shove or poke when no one was looking. During morning classes I was walking to the front of the room when Ronnie stuck out a foot to trip me. I saw it in time to avoid the obstacle, but took the opportunity to step on his foot.....Probably not the nicest thing I ever did, and the stage was set.
School let out at noon and everyone headed for the door. We barely made it outside before the fists began to fly, but like most grade school fights, there was little damage done before Mr. Grundy pulled us apart. We had had our spat, shook hands and were friends again. No harm, no foul, except Ronnie was black and I was white. Fortunately, no one made a big deal out of it, but my parents had to be informed, and of course that resulted in further punishment at home.
There was nothing racial about our little scuffle. It was just two boys trying to prove their manhood. Our school was integrated, and all of us played, yelled, tussled, and made-up on a regular basis. Just kids being kids. I still have very good friends from those days, and color doesn't seem to be the discerning factor.
Those years helped shape us into the people we are today and I like to think we all learned a little from, and about, each other. No doubt we had some trying times, but we also created some great memories. Of course my perspective is skewed, as is the perspective of my black friends. It's my belief that different perspectives shouldn't build walls, they should instead, be bridges to understanding....but again, what the heck do I know.
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