My last blog began by referencing the landmark Supreme Court decision, Brown vs. Board of Education, which came about in the year I was born - 1954. An old friend, Derrill Holly, asked why I left the "lead" and went off in another direction with my blog. So today I will blog about the social significance of growing up in North Little Rock, Arkansas, as segregation slowly (very slowly) evolved into intergration and the Vietnam war raged on, mostly to my utter indifference.
I lived in Lakewood, a lily white community, much like the one featured in the recent movie, The Help. The only black people in our neighborhood were the maids that came daily, and the men who manned the garbage trucks. Being a garbage man had to be the worst job imaginable. This was before Glad Bags and garbage disposals. Garbage was dumped into the garbage can directly from the dinner table. It was a putrid mess of garbage and maggots. I know. I used to look into the garbage can in disgust and fascination. Paper trash was typically burned in a container in the backyard, and yes, I set fire to the backyard on many occasions.
The "colored" lived in a different part of town known as Dark Hollow, or Dogtown (because when the white folks got tired of their dogs they set them loose in Dogtown). I can still remember segregated water fountains in downtown Little Rock. In 1963 or 64 my family drove to Houston to see the brand new Eighth Wonder of the World - the Astrodome. We took a side trip to Galveston and my sister, Mary Lynn, and I swam at a deserted beach. It was fun playing in the 3-foot waves, just the two of us, while our parents watched from the beach. But later, as we drove east along the seawall, we came upon a beach where hundreds of people were frolicking in the surf. We found out later that we had been swimming at the "colored" beach. Same gulf, same sand...different rules.
And so it went as I entered junior high school. Other than Martha, our part-time maid, I didn't know any African-Americans until I got to junior high. And there were only a handful of black kids at Ridgeroad Junior High School. I was oblivious to many things, including the war raging in Vietnam, as well as the war being waged in America for Civil Rights. That all begin to change when I entered the 8th Grade, thanks to my American History and Home Room Teacher, Mr. Harrison.
Mr. Harrison stood out in that small bedroom community of North Little Rock. His hair was a little long, and maybe a tad greasy. He wore boots and rode a motorcycle to work. Remember, this was Arkansas in 1966. It's possible I even caught Mr. Harrison smoking a joint in the film projector room when I surprised him during lunch one day. He was clearly startled as he blew smoke out the window when I burst in, but I didn't even know what pot was at the time.
But Mr. Harrison made an indelible mark on me that year. One that has shaped my thought process and my sense of social justice since then. My parents used to blame him for corrupting me, for turning me away from the conservative, Republican philosophy that permeated our community. And I guess he did.
One of the innovative things he did was if you made an "A" in American history the first six weeks, you didn't have to do any of the busy work, homework for the next six weeks. As long as you did well on the tests and continued to make an "A" you had no homework. You'd better believe I made an "A" every six weeks for the entire year. The only thing he required of the handful of us that continued to get our "A" was to write a short paper. He also gave extra credit for certain things. For example, he wrote the symbol that is now universally recognized as the peace symbol on the board. For ten extra credit points you had to come back the next day with what it stood for. Somehow Kenny Carpenter's dad knew that it stood for "Ban the Bomb." Kenny told me (he was in a different class) and I got the extra credit in my class.
Anyway, back to the paper. I was given the Vietnam War as a topic, and had to write a short paper on the war. I knew nothing, I mean nothing about the Vietnam War. So I went home and found my Dad's U.S. News and World Report, and possibly Time Magazine and basically regurgitated what they were reporting on the war in southeast Asia. It was pro-government, and basically crap. In his wisdom, Mr. Harrison generously gave my paper an A- and wrote the following at the top of the page: Good job! Just be careful that you are letting the facts form your opinions and not letting your opinions form your facts. Wow, he nailed it! Mr. Harrison was absolutely right. It was my Road to Damascus moment. My eyes opened and I suddenly began to question what was going on in this country, whether it was the war in Vietnam, or the struggle for Civil Rights. My whole belief system had been rocked to the foundation by that simple, seemingly innocent comment on my paper. My parents were right in a way. Mr. Harrison changed me, like no other teacher ever has. The 70s were approaching and I had an entirely new perspective on the country and the world.
I ran into Mr. Harrison several years later when I was going to college and he was dating one of my classmates (hey, I never said he was perfect). But today I have no idea where he is, or what he is doing. But wherever you are, Mr. Harrison, thank you. You have no idea the impact you had on my life and my philosophy. I still believe in justice, equality, dignity and democracy. I believe in the social Gospel. And I believe in you, Mr. Harrison. You have no idea what you did to a bright, but uninformed eighth-grade kid some 46 years ago.
Thank you.
