Again inspired by a friend’s social post, this blog shall address my experiences with minorities. My friend contextualized her rural upbringing with her current place of residence, which happens to be Brooklyn. She referenced a person and a residence that happen to play a role in my adaption to rural life. A later thread referred to the proverbial stroll down memory lane. Mine, for one, was sufficiently jogged.
Unlike my friend, I was not part of a rural environment from day one. I spent my first seven years in Springfield, N.J. Contrary to popular myth, it is not a community that can be found in all 50 states (35). My Springfield was part of the New Jersey expanding inkblot of suburbia Newark, New Jersey spawned, which was begat by New York City. My elementary school did not have a single black child in attendance, although Springfield was only a stone’s throw from East Orange, Orange, and Irvington. White flight from these three towns had begun in earnest before I was born in 1957. However, my mother worked at Columbian School in East Orange. I always looked forward to the day her school was in session, and my school, James Caldwell was closed. That meant my mother would take me to her work, and I got to sit in with her friend, Pat Bancroft’s, (later Hague) class.
From my recollection, which is uncanny by the way, Columbian school was decidedly mixed. Meaning, there was no real clear-cut majority when it came to ethnic or racial group. I was not given a pep talk about how to interact. I was not coached about what I should or should not say in this environment. I just was. It did not take me long to become “part of” once I was allowed to play dodgeball. I possessed enough arm strength and catching ability to distinguish myself, and earn the respect of my new peers. Inclusion through sport. To me, it wasn’t a stretch to return to my lily-white school based on the Dodgeball criteria.
I had had all kinds of “mixed” interactions growing up. I use the term and put it in quotes because of our society’s insatiable need to label everything. While still living in Springfield, I couldn’t wait until Thursdays. Thursday was the day Mamie arrived. She cleaned our house and did our laundry. We were the first household I knew of where both parents worked full-time. My grandparents insisted they pay for someone to come in to help with the housework. Mamie would take the bus from Newark to Springfield. I couldn’t wait to see her. She always showered me with hugs and kisses. I adored her. It made me sad I’d have to wait a week for her to come back. Mamie’s skin color was different from mine. I didn’t care one way or another.
Thursday’s also meant the occasional trip to “Joe and John’s Beauty Parlor.” My grandfather didn’t like me to go in to see Joe and John. My grandmother would tell him, “Oh Wes, he can come in for a minute.” They adored me as well. In my later years, I figured out they were gay. This never mattered a lick to me as a child. All I knew was they made a big fuss every time they saw me. This was the first real prejudice my grandfather exhibited. I was oblivious as a tot. But this was just the beginning for him.
There were warnings of going into my friend’s house who was Armenian. There were consternations about my attending birthday parties at Abbe Becker’s and Jesse Greenstein’s. Both Jewish friends of mine. I came to learn later, the increasing Jewish population in Springfield served as a motivator for my grandparents to pick up roots and move to Chester. Once in Chester, I had to make new friends. I didn’t fully understand the implications of that simple task.
We moved to Delwood Rd. in the summer of 1965. My father, was quick to make acquaintances, but equally quick to draw ire from others. This inhibited whom I could play with without drawing a lecture. I could venture farther from my house than I was ever allowed in Springfield. My mother was always certain I would be hit by a car. She had a healthy paranoia ever since she answered a call as a volunteer on the Springfield rescue squad. That call was enough to have her quit. A child had been struck by a car while riding his bike in the street. The child was the son of one of my mother’s best friends. Hence, all things that she read, heard, experienced second hand concerning children convinced her, would eventually happen to me. The move from suburbia to rural alleviated much of her concern. Thank goodness, or I would have been limited to playing with the eventual high school valedictorian, whose interests were limited to Estes rockets, and playing various forms of army. Looking back, it may not have been such a bad thing to have hung out with Peter more. Maybe I wouldn’t have been such a scholastic fuck up. Riding my bike to the endless possibilities of Pleasant Hill Rd. opened my world considerably.
My interests were sports. I tried to relate to the Simmons boys. While the two middle boys exhibited a limited interest in sports, their abilities were more limited still. I played with Charlie when I could. He seemed to have a lot going on that summer. Danny was a nice enough kid, but a bit odd (aren’t we all). Sports, save horseback riding, were not part of his world. My time with Danny would be curtailed. A couple of houses down, I found sports Nirvana. Warren’s family, the Rubinsteins, were the caretakers of the Renfield Estate. The Renfields were the purveyors of the Martini & Rossi vermouth brand, and other liquor imports. There were considerable grounds to take care of. Warren’s family caused me a little confusion, but again, I didn’t care or give it any thought. Warren cleared everything up for me in our getting to know a new friend Q & A.
Mr. Rubinstein, Warren’s step-father was white and Jewish. Warren’s mother was black. His brother Bill and sister Doris had a different last name from Warren. Later in my life, I ran into Bill who now went by his father’s name Frank, whom he was named after. Frank was a professional dancer and gay. My sister became friends with Doris. Bill, though much older, played sports with Warren and I when we needed a third wheel. Occasionally, Warren’s cousin Jim, who was a year or 2 older than Warren, would come stay for a while. Though he would give me a beating now and again, he was an excellent sports playmate. I was unfamiliar with such a living dynamic, but it mattered little in terms of friendship. Then one day my grandfather was having a discussion with my mother concerning my playmates.
The kitchen door was closed, so I put my ear to the door crack. I heard my grandfather say, “Nancy, why do let Wade play with that N-word.” I had never heard the word before. Mamie was never referred to as an N-word. At the time, I didn’t know what it meant. My grandfather continued. “People in church are talking about Wade.” Now, my friend Jane, who inspired this blog, went to the same church. I know it wasn’t her parents talking about me.
My mother had a talk with me about my spending so much time at Warren’s. I ignored her for the most part. If she found out where I was spending my days, I’d get scolded, or the- I can’t leave Delwood this week- penalty. When my parents divorced in 1967, my mother sister and I moved to a house on the corner of Pleasant Hill Rd. and Valley View Rd. I missed playing with Warren. By this time, I had been friends with Tom, who live down the street, for quite some time since my grandparents were my primary caregivers. I often asked to have Warren over for a playdate. There was always some excuse. I didn’t understand, and I didn’t question my elders much.
By the time I reached high school, I saw my grandfather’s proclivity for bigotry and racism. He would often regale me stories of his childhood, where he would slur every ethnic group, religious group, and race, as if these were accurate and needed descriptors. I loved him dearly, but not what he believed. The life of the party at my sister’s first wedding, Martin, was gay. He thought I was terrific. All the people my mother, father, and maternal grandparents, had preconceived notions about, were all wonderful to me. I never let their prejudices affect my worldview.
I took a sociology course during my collegiate crash and burn period. The class of 73 students was asked if there was anyone who did not possess any prejudice or bigotry toward any race, religion, or ethnic group. We all answered truthfully. I was the only one who raised their hand. The professor was incredulous. I said, “Do you see that blond girl on the side of the room? I hate her as much as I hate anyone from any specific group. An asshole’s an asshole.” It’s kind of cool that 40 years ago, my thoughts were like that meme about how we judge others, that circulates social media every now and again.
Years later, my son had an opportunity to switch Middle Schools after I remarried. He chose to remain where he was. His reasoning? “Dad, everybody at Walter C. is white. Pines Middle is diverse. I like that.” The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
