The Making of a Liberal, Part One For the Grands

Each of us becomes who we are through an amalgam of experiences over the years, each one marking us, sometimes consciously, sometimes not, sometimes indelibly, sometimes with a soft brush stroke.  Conversations, admonitions from caretakers, books, TV, movies, magazines, photos, teachers, school lessons,  Sunday school lessons, observation of elders and one’s own imagination come into play in this molding process.

I was not born into a liberal/progressive family environment.  Politics was not discussed at the dinner table, nor were ideas for that matter.  In fact I have little memory of dinner table conversation.  It was a time to eat not talk--perhaps an outgrowth of my elders having come of age during the Depression of the 1930’s and being the offspring of rather taciturn fathers.  And, Houston in the ‘50’s, and to this day, isn’t exactly a hotbed of liberal thought.

My experiences at this great remove and in memory have no doubt morphed a bit.  After all I am viewing them today through 71 years of change.  So what I shall do in this piece is begin with those earliest experiences that I believe played some small or large role in shaping the liberal that I am today. 

Born in 1944 I grew up in a time when children were never asked their thoughts or opinions.  We were expected to sit quietly to the side in the presence of adults or go out and play. So, I may have missed discussions on the social and political issues of the day.  That said my earliest impressions centered around Black people, African Americans, Negroes or more bluntly the word ‘nigger’ (which even now I find difficult to input on this keyboard).  One time when I was about eight, we were watching Nat King Cole on our circa 1952, black and white TV. 

When I Fall in Love  (one of my many favorites of his)

Mamaw (as I called Jackie Williams with whom I boarded when my Mother could not care for me) remarked, “Look at those big, fat ‘nigger’ lips.”  The remark felt out of joint. To my mind, yes, his lips were larger than mine, but his voice was so beautiful, smooth as a fine cognac, creating a sort of instant calm.  That unique voice was never remarked on.   Mamaw's assessment filled me with a vague dis-ease and at eight I did not register it deeply, though obviously it lived on in memory.

My world was full of awful names for blacks—ace of spades, ape, baboon,  ghetto monkey, gorilla, buck N*****,  coon, darkie, high yellow, jigaboo,  little black sambo, liver lips, nappy head, pickaninny, tar baby.  These are the ones I recall, but the Internet will provide long lists—unfortunately.   We humans do love to come up with deplorable words to describe those we fear, hate or deem inferior to ourselves.  Even as a child I steered clear of ever calling anyone by a racial slur to their face or even in a conversation about them.   I don’t know why I did so.  I just know I did…this also included Hispanics, Asians, homosexuals, etc.

Another memory in this period is an overheard conversation about some incident involving black people and my mother remarking something like, “We should just bomb them out of existence.”  As a side note, Ted Cruz, a Republican Senator from Texas, found fertile ground for his carpet bombing notions of ISIS when he moved from Canada to Texas at an early age.  To this day I do wonder what some black person or group did to warrant such an over the top remark from my mother.

When I was nine or so I saw Showboat and we had a recording of Ol' Man River.  I listened to that piece over and over, the deep voice of Paul Robeson resonating in my chest, the plaintiveness, the heaviness, the weariness of his lot in life echoing in me and down through the decades.   Suddenly I was inhabiting the space of a black man, seeing the world through his eyes. The piece still moves me to tears.  More grist for the mill that was grinding slowly.

Ol' Man River sung by Paul Robeson

To be continued...