Political Roots - Understanding Self

The following story Chronicles my early political life. The images contained in the story have followed me throughout my life.

Political Roots – Thoughts on Change

I was eleven years old. The year was 1961 and traveling through the south with Massachusetts license plates could, on rare occasions, be hazardous to your health. In my family’s case, we were lucky; my dad kept a level head and managed to find a small police station in rural South Carolina. The truck that tried to run us off the road and followed for over 100 miles disappeared in the dark southern night.

Our destination was Americus Georgia, the hometown of my father’s parents. My southern relatives were great people that clung tightly to southern traditions. This was not an easy time in the south during the first years of the Kennedy administration. My dad, having grown up in the south viewed life a little differently. Surviving the war in the South Pacific, marrying my mom from Boston and settling in the northeast probably changed him.

As children, my sister who was thirteen and I could not fully comprehend the turmoil. We would question and not understand why most stores downtown excluded blacks. In the stores that allowed blacks to enter, items on the floor had 2 separate prices; the lower price was always for the white customers.

My grandmother was dying of Parkinson’s disease and because of her deteriorating condition needed help daily. On this trip, the help was a young black girl that probably was not more than 14 years of age and that certainly seemed to belong in school. I can’t remember her name but I vividly remember the incidents that followed.

After this young black girl served dinner to the ten of us in the dining room, she went out to the kitchen to eat alone. My sister insisted that this girl be allowed to eat dinner with us at the dinning room table. It was politely explained to her this was not done in the south. My sister lifted her plate and walked into the kitchen, sat down and ate her dinner with this girl that was so near to her own age. I was very nervous and remained seated and ate my dinner. By the time desert was served, I mustered up the courage to join my sister in the kitchen with her new friend. Through this all, both my parents never said a negative word.

After dinner, I walked outside and found a young black boy who was about my age in the street by himself. I asked him if he wanted to play catch. He said he did not have a glove so we shared mine, taking turns catching ground balls and fly balls in the street. It just so happened that this boy was the brother of my sister’s new friend. He was sent by his family to walk his sister home. They lived down the street at the beginning of the black section and all of the houses along this side of West Church Street were in very poor condition. My sister and I walked our friends back to their house and they invited us in. I can remember a large kitchen table, but that is not the thing that stayed with me all of these years. Above the table on the kitchen wall was a framed color photograph of President John Kennedy. It seemed to be the only thing in color in a black and white world.

Through this all, my parents only offered positive support and my loving southern relatives never said a negative word. At least I can’t remember a negative word, but maybe there were some discussions when my sister and I were out of the house. While southern traditions would at times dictate behavior, it did not change the fact that I’m confident my very sick grandmother cared deeply, and yes, loved her care givers.

This brings me forward to today, November 4, 2008, some 47 years later. I’m proud to have a framed picture of President Barack Obama hanging in my den. To me it completes a journey of hope; the hope that all people can learn to love and respect one another. I’m as proud of hanging this picture in my den as that poor black family was proud of hanging their picture so long ago.

tomtoak