Читать книгу Time Bring About a Change - Tony J.D. Carr - Страница 5

It was a very hot July day in 1969 when my mother said she had something important to tell me. What she shared with me on that day would change my life.

I grew up in Beloit, Wisconsin, a small industrial city in the southern part of the state. My neighborhood was predominantly African American, but there were whites that lived in our community, too. I can remember looking out my bedroom window at the nearby railroad tracks and waving at hoboes who caught a ride on the back of a slow-moving train car. It may not have been the greatest neighborhood, but for me, it was a fascinating place to grow up. My family was loving and compassionate. I was fortunate and blessed to have both my mom and dad at home, along with my older brother. My grandparents and aunt lived just three blocks away on the other side of the railroad tracks.

The late 1960s were a time of turmoil and change in America, and I remember that during my childhood, the television news was full of protests and riots, civil rights demonstrations and reports of the Vietnam War. That was a lot for a young boy to take in. But none of it had really touched me personally—until that day in July of 1969, when I was nine years old.

My mother told me she had received a letter from the school district notifying her that in August I would have to attend a new elementary school. I didn’t understand. I loved my school, Burdge Elementary. It was only two blocks from our house, and all my friends were there. The new school that I was to attend, Royce Elementary, was at least a mile away. I wouldn’t know anyone there. There was something else about the new school that would be different: Royce was an all-white school. All my friends at Burdge looked like me—black.

I thought my mom was joking.

“Are we moving?” I asked.

She replied no.

“Why do I have to go to a new school?”

My mother tried to explain that it was due to re-zoning of the school district. The re-zoning did not affect my older brother because he was at the junior high where all students from the school district went. I didn’t understand that at the time, but when I look back now, I believe that I was a part of an integration mandate. President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act in 1964, which made racial discrimination in public places illegal. Supreme Court rulings between 1965—1971 made it clear that schools must desegregate. In many cities the desegregation was being accomplished through court-ordered re-zoning and forced busing.

So many emotions went through me. I was sad, angry, and scared of the unknown. I couldn’t imagine having to leave all my friends. I told my mother that I was going to take a knife and kill myself if I had to go to Royce. That was when my mother and grandparents sat me down and gave me a serious lesson about life. They explained how throughout American history, black people had been treated unfairly because of the color of our skin. In the South, all aspects of life were segregated by law. Blacks and whites were not allowed to eat in the same restaurants, attend the same schools, or even drink out of the same water fountains. The recent events of the civil rights movement had brought about change, but it was a slow and painful struggle. My mother and grandparents, who were from small towns in Mississippi, had experienced this racism firsthand.

My mother went to a colored-only school in Mississippi, and although she learned the basics, the education standards and school supplies were far inferior to those of the white schools. In her small one-room school there were children of different ages. My grandparents’ educational opportunities were even bleaker. Like many black people in the South at that time, they were sharecroppers—poor farmers who grew their crops on someone else’s land. Sharecroppers had to give part of their crop every year to pay their rent, which meant they were rarely able to save any money, and had to work hard to survive. The children in sharecropping families rarely got any education. They were needed to work on the farm, and had no time for school. As a result my grandmother went to school up to the seventh grade, but my grandfather never mentioned attending any school.

My mother and grandparents verbally painted a picture of how going to this new school was going to take my way of thinking and learning to a new level. They encouraged me to take advantage of this opportunity that they were never afforded. Eventually, I realized I did not have a choice.

The First Day

The rest of that summer of 1969 went too quickly, and before I knew it, I was walking through the doors at Royce Elementary. Gathering my courage, I glanced around at the other children. My heart leapt into my throat: No one looked like me.

I was welcomed into the classroom by my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Higgins, a very tall white lady with jet-black hair. Mrs. Higgins introduced me to my class and explained that I came from another school. After the introduction there was a dead silence—everyone was staring at me as though I were a zoo animal. Then the whispering started. I tried to block out the whispers and remember what my grandfather had told me: “You put your pants on the same way everyone else does, and there is no one that is any better than you. You get what you came there for, an education.” My grandfather was great at phrasing words that kept me focused and motivated.

I initially dreaded going to recess and lunch. I just wanted to get through my classes and go home, never to return again. However, I knew that was not going to happen. Like it or not, I would have to mingle and try to assimilate into this new school environment. I also understood that it was just a matter of time before racial names would come to the surface. Well, it didn’t take long enough. I was called names like nigger lips, spear chucker, spook, and a host of other degrading descriptors. My parents had taught me that if someone punched me, I could punch them back—but I should never start a fight over someone’s words. So, I took the name-calling and just let the anger build up inside of me.

A Challenge

Three weeks into the school year, things started to change. One day at recess, I was standing by the basketball court when a sixth grader approached me and challenged me to a game of one-on-one. Now, this sixth-grade boy was probably one of the most popular kids in the school. I happily accepted his challenge, for I was fortunate to have been blessed with athleticism and the ability to play basketball at an early age. My mom’s brother, Uncle Everett, had played with the Harlem Globetrotters and Harlem Magicians in the late 1950s and early ’60s, and in the 1970s he had started his own team called the Broadway Clowns. When I was five years old, he began teaching me the fine art of basketball fundamentals and showmanship.

Uncle Everett was not only a mentor to me athletically, but socially as well. But I probably give my brother, Steve, the most credit for my basketball abilities. I always wanted to beat him, and he would never let me. Steve gave me no special treatment, and he was very hard on me when we played basketball. There were times when I hated him for it, but when I look back now, I realize that all those years of playing with my brother helped make me both mentally and physically tough.

When I was five, my father and grandfather cut out a backboard made of wood, added a wooden pole, cemented it into the ground, and, after attaching a rim and net to the pre-cut wooden backboard, we had a basketball court. Playing on that makeshift basketball court into the darkness of night were some of the happiest times of my life. The game would consist of Uncle Everett and me against my father and brother and cousin Kim. Uncle Everett and I would always win because he did all the hard work and created wide-open shots for me.

SWISH

Three Years Old And Shy As Can Be

All Confused, But There’s Love In The Family

My Teddy Bear (Brownie) Is My Only Friend

Mom Is Always With Me From Beginning To The End

Started In An Urban School

Yeah, It’s Mostly Black

School Board Votes Integration

White School Says Go Back

Confusion Is Back Again

White Children Call Me Names

Do They Really Hate My Race?

Or Are Their Parents To Blame?

I Became A Loner

Finding Peace Within My Space

Learning One Thing Daily

That It’s A Cold, Cold Human Race

But I Came Across A Basketball

Not Trusting Anyone

Uncle, Dad, And My Brother

Showed Me How It’s Done

Things Come So Natural

With The Ball In My Hand

Swishing Nets And Fancy Dribbles

This I Understand

Prejudice And Pain

Could Not Turn Me For A Loop

I Found Peace Of Mind

Whenever I Shot The Hoop

Acceptance Is Achieved

By The Talents You Possess

Keep Believing, Not Deceiving

And You Will Pass The Test

Life Is What You Make Of It

It Can Be A Very Hard Mission

But To Make The Road A Little Easier

Hold On To Your Religion.

I felt I was special at the age of five scoring the winning basket on my Uncle Everett’s team. These games went on for many years. So when this sixth-grade boy challenged me at recess, I was more than ready to accept. For the first time at Royce Elementary, I felt I had an edge over my fellow classmates.

When the one-on-one game started, I was doing fancy dribbles, trick shots and a lot of smack talking about how I was going to beat my opponent. All of a sudden, I looked up and noticed the crowd. Students of all ages, and even a few teachers, had gathered and were cheering for me as I was taking it to Mr. Sixth Grader. I was excited because people were enjoying watching me play basketball. Heck, I was entertaining the masses.

After that day on the basketball court, students of all ages and grades started treating me differently. I wasn’t Tony the black kid anymore—I was Tony the basketball player. Students started seeing me as something other than a minority.

Things Always Happen on Time

As the school year went on, a few other black students enrolled at Royce. I was excited to see other students of color, but most did not stay very long. Some were suspended for fighting, and others left in discouragement when they found they just could not fit in at a white school. It made me sad when they left.

I felt really bad for one black student who ended up in a boys’ home because of repeated delinquent activity. This made it clear to me at an early age how important our family’s love, structure, and above all faith in God had been in creating my foundation. My family was very religious, and we felt all things were possible through our faith in the Almighty. My mother always used to tell me, “Things may not happen when you want them to, but through God they always happen on time.”

My remaining years at Royce Elementary were great. I excelled academically and athletically. My sixth-grade basketball coach, Ms. Tucker, ran an offense called “Give It to Tony.” Wherever I was on the court at that time, I’d get the ball and shoot. Ms. Tucker’s coaching style is probably one of the reasons I became a high scorer through my many years of competitive basketball.

I would run home after a basketball game and yell, “Mom! Dad! Guess how many points I scored in the game?” My mom would say, “How many?” and I would yell something like, “27 points.” But my parents would only say, “Oh yeah? That’s nice.” I wanted them to say more, but that’s all I would get from them. I really don’t think they believed I had scored that many points. Finally after about five games, my dad came to see me play. During our warmup, as I was pulling up a pair of knee-high, black knit socks, I looked up and was thrilled to see my father entering the gymnasium.

That game I put on a shooting exhibition, scoring 29 points and 15 rebounds. That game sparked my parents to start attending my sporting events from then on. My parents worked different hours, but one of them was always in attendance when their schedules allowed. That same year, my Royce Elementary basketball team came within one game of the city championship. The school that eliminated us was Burdge Elementary. My old buddies at Burdge beat us by one point, and from that time on I understood that Royce had become a part of me. Though I continued my neighborhood friendships, when it came to cheering for the winner, Royce was the one I chose. After my sixth-grade year, I was actually sad to leave Royce Elementary. I had established many friendships.

I sometimes wonder if the students and faculty at Royce Elementary ever really accepted my race at that time. Did they like me because of who I was as a person or only as a good basketball player? In the end, it really doesn’t matter because the students, the faculty, and I left there better people. We all became more aware of cultures different from our own.