Category: Introduction

In High School I was enrolled in the Commercial courses, where my father thought I would have the best preparation for the business career he foresaw for me. It never occurred to me to question that decision. I learned typing, stenography, bookkeeping, with an occasional civics course. Bob was in the College course, where most of my other friends were also. When Bob decided to run for Senior Class President it was no surprise that I was his campaign manager. Of course he won! That was a vigorous time for us, and I learned how to bridge some of the divides in the student body. My social life was with the students in the College courses, but my school life introduced me to classmates with “different” last names, ending with “skis”, “skys”, “ians” in abundance. I was able to bridge those differences in many cases. It became clear that the ability to garner votes across those divides was the key to Bob’s victory. I remember convincing the public speaking teacher to coach Bob so that he made a good presentation during the campaign. In that experience I was learning more than I realized about how to organize and rally people.

Our High School graduating class numbered over six hundred, maybe more.
I was awarded The Philomathian Award, supposedly for leadership, scholarship, and sportsmanship. My father was very proud when my picture turned up on the pages of the Haverhill Gazette.

In High School I was active as a debater and one time went to the city library to get a copy of Mein Kampf, because I was to debate something related to Nazi Germany. The clerk at the library would not let me take out Hitler’s book, until I met with the city Librarian, and was subjected to an interview to ascertain my motives. I still remember precise passages from that book. Hitler referred to Jews as “low mendacious crawlers who avoid the light of day to work their pestilence under cover of darkness”. Communists were “foreflushing, hypocritical blatherskites”. More than I realized at the moment, reading Hitler affected the ease with which I accepted military service. Without a great deal of thought I had come to recognize the evil in the Nazi manipulation of a nation, and it provided a reason for war. My awareness of the managed, anti-semitic violence in Germany added to the dis-ease with the world, which had begun with my recognition of my parents’ prejudice toward Bob. That experience brought me later to World War II, which was the beginning of the end of my age of innocence.

It may have been that interview with the city Librarian, Donald Campbell, which led to his employing me, after the War, to serve for a few months as coordinator for an office where we compiled a large volume of the experience of the city during the War. Another influence that led to that editing work may have been that I served as the de facto student editor-in-chief for our class yearbook. Another student was the elected editor, but served very little because he was the “lead” in the class play, having been chosen in my stead! For weeks and weeks, I stayed at the school until late afternoon, working closely with other students, under the guidance of one of the best teachers ever, Donald Freeman. It was a valuable experience for me, and was preparing me for roles I could not then predict.

A lot of my student friends understood how I qualified for the “leadership”, and “scholarship” parts of the Philomathian Award. Some of the more athletic friends were puzzled that I qualified as “sportsman”. Most people assumed that “sportsman” referred to athletic ability, and I hardly qualified! About the only thing I ever did in sports, besides sandlot baseball and football, was to catch for the Senior students when we played ball against the faculty. It was the first time I had ever caught behind the plate. My friends all knew that I could hit pretty well, and “field” very well at second base, but also knew that my arm was not great for accuracy, so they put me behind the plate, hoping I would not have to throw the ball to another base! I remember that I enjoyed that role, and regretted that I had no other chances to try it again!

Among my friends, Bob Carbone was the longest-lasting, and one from whose relationship I learned the most. His Italian family lived in a three-decker house on a street near to my home. Bob and I became friendly in grammar school and remained so through all the school days. It was only until our lives had parted, that reminiscence taught me something about the subtleties of prejudice.

I was frequently in Bob’s house, yelled for him every day on the way to school, through High School, ate meals with his family, learned to say a few Italian words which his immigrant grandmother could understand. I was fully accepted there. In a later adult day, I came to realize that I could hardly remember a time when Bob was ever in my home! I was astounded to admit that, and wondered, of course, why.

When I graduated from High School, my parents took me to Washington, D.C. as a celebration, and I was told that I could invite a friend to travel with us. Of course I chose Bob, and he did go with us. One day at breakfast in our Washington hotel, when Bob was away from the table, I was amazed to hear my mother share her surprise that he was so wonderfully courteous and well-behaved! Bob was probably not “at ease” with my parents, and clearly they were not “at ease” with him. Remembering this as an adult, the fact that Bob was seldom in our home made sense, or really, nonsense!

Today it seems strange that I never discussed this with Bob. It stands for me as an example of a “lost opportunity”, which might have had rich instruction for my learning, My bet is that Bob and his family were aware of, or at least assumed that my parents held unspoken prejudices against their immigrant status. Adult reflection later led me to see this as an instance of the subtlety of prejudice. Later I would see similar dynamics abundant in race relations.

The church of which I was a member sponsored each year a Minstrel Show, which attracted good numbers, and made a bit of money. During my High School years, I became one of the very best of “end men” for that show. In that role, I covered my face with burnt cork, widened my lips with very red lipstick, learned the stereotyped words and speech of degraded black men images. The role engaged me as a dumb, helpless, lazy “nigger”, responding stupidly to inquiries from the “m.c.”, who of course, was a bright, white man, always leading the audience in laughter at my antics. Whatever the role required, I played it well, even singing and dancing to make fun of the stereotyped black man. Each year I looked forward to this role; it focused a lot of appreciative attention, admiration, and loud applause. Years later, when I learned to put the “minstrels” in their racist context, I realized that I had to work to replace all that stupidity which that acting had put into my head/heart. I learned how to forgive myself, but I have never quite forgiven the church for condoning that conduct. That may have been the seed-bed of a later time when a more substantial disillusionment led me out of the church and organized religion.

The church also sponsored a Boy Scout troop; I went to one meeting with some friends, a session that was supposed to enlist us as members. All I remember of it, was that we stood in rows for what seemed interminably long, and I did not understand why. We were put through some simple “drills” barked by a man at the front of the room. I had no inclination or desire to repeat them. I did not return for another meeting! It was probably the foundation of later rejections of regimented activity of any sort.

My father was not a “joiner”, aside from those business associations which were necessary. That he did not engage with groups may have had to do with an event in his life, which I only heard about once or twice, but which I knew was a source of hurt. He had applied for admission to the local Masonic Lodge, and had been rejected … they called it, “black-balled”! (That name, in and of itself” is rooted in negative assumptions of “blackness”!) He was sure that some business jealousy was the cause of his rejection, but he was deeply hurt. He told me about that rejection when I became active in the DeMolay, often seen as a youth “branch” of the Masons. I became very active in the DeMolay, and served for several terms as Chaplain, and was given the highest award of the Order, the Chevalier Degree. Father was pleased, and I think saw my success as a vindication of his name.

Another incident in the DeMolay Chapter contributed to my eventual withdrawal from the Masons, and rejection of all secret and secretive institutions. In High School I befriended a boy in the neighborhood who had a reputation as “bad”. I submitted his name for membership in the Chapter, confident that membership would be good for him and the group. That same secret system which had denied membership to father, worked against Don, as members moved forward, each putting his hand into a box where a “black-ball” could be dropped without anyone knowing who had dropped it. At the time, though disappointed, I had no idea how significant that action was in forming my views against secrecy. Often too, I have reflected on the paternalistic feelings I had for Don, sure that I could help him! Another attitude to be “un-learned”.

As a young boy and teenager I also became active in the church, a in the children’s choir, and then as President of the youth organization. I became a church member while in High School; as a part of the service, I was baptized by what was called a “sprinkling”, a traditional Congregational way of avoiding the larger pool! As a part of the service, each of the new members was given a Bible. The minister, Rev. George Cary, read for each of those being inducted a Biblical verse, which was meant to have significance individually. The verse chosen for me was the magnificent word of Micah: “..what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” That verse has always had great meaning for me, and I hope at the end of my days, to have given actual substance to it in my life. One of the toughest parts of that verse is the bit about walking “humbly”. The presumption of even writing this story is rooted in what I hope is justifiable immodesty.

As President of the youth group, The Pilgrim Fellowship, I began to hone some organizational skills and interests, constantly engaging in organizing social events, meetings, lectures, etc. A number of people foresaw me as a minister, and this was confirmed when, after the 1938 hurricane, aged fourteen, I read during the Sunday service, an essay assuring all that our magnificent steeple had been saved by an act of Providence. !!!

Words of bigotry were not allowed in the house. I was taught that the word “nigger” was not to be used, but never had that explained. A strange memory was of my being in conversation with playmates, explaining to them that it was wrong when one of them picked his nose, revealed a tiny black something on the end of his finger, and called it “nigger”. Today it seems ever more odd that I remember that! Certainly there was a genesis of at least confusion about the matter of “race”. At the very least I knew there was something wrong about using the word “nigger”, but any reason for that was certainly “at the very least” of family concerns.

There were occasional anti-Jewish outbursts from father. I remember once questioning him about how those feelings related to what seemed were cordial relations with Jewish men who ran the store from which he bought meat. There was little response; I think he saw no reason to reply. During the period when FDR was President, I do remember curses from father which were politically anti-New Deal. “Race”was not mentioned in my home. Politics were not discussed at home; they were announced by father, in strong Republican accents!

One incident from my very early years which became a “learning” many years later, occurred in a family visit to my Mother’s home in Pittsfield. My widowed Grandmother was living there alone, and we took the day-long ride to visit her regularly.
Each year my Uncle Ernest also came to visit her, and we made a point to be there with him. I never had a sense that Mother was especially close to him, but I liked him. Part of my liking him was in the fact that he had a large car, and a Negro chauffeur, who drove me around the tiny town on errands. Uncle Ernest was Secretary of the Pennsylvania State Chamber of Commerce; while that meant little to me, it impressed me that he was quite “important”. The long, black car was itself enough to gain attention in Pittsfield; a chauffeur would have been unusual. The long, black car being driven around the tiny town was certainly a subject for note. To those images I add myself, the little white kid obviously being served by a black driver! I wonder still of the effect which it had on my viewing of “race”.

The Chauffeur’s name was “Joseph”, the only name by which I ever knew him!
He was pleasant, cordial, and competent in everything he did. He was the only adult person I ever knew whom I was allowed to call by a “first name”! Of course, I learned later that the origin of that “naming” was in the slavery period which stripped its victims of names, and allowed white little “masters” like me to disobey the rules of common decency I had been taught.

“Joseph” was treated with respect by my Uncle, but the “respectful” distance included that he was not allowed to eat with the family. We four ate in the dining room, while “Joseph” ate at a table in a remote corner of the kitchen. One time when my Uncle was not present for a meal, I remember my Father and Mother discussing their concern that Joseph ought to “eat with us”. I went with Father into the kitchen, and there he invited “Joseph” to join us in the dining room. Of course, “Joseph” declined, and we returned to our meal, sorry and probably confused. In much later years, reflection on this incident illuminated for me what was then a beginning understanding of “liberalism”, now a term which I hope never to deserve. I began a process of empathizing with all “Josephs” who could not possibly have received my Father’s “invitation” as anything other than misplaced paternalism at best, and worse as a demand that placed “Joseph” in conflict with the orders of my Uncle, his “master”. Little did I know that those encounters with “Joseph”, would later lead me to understand the larger context of the time which shaped the ways Father and Mother viewed the world of “race”. Still, in 2008, I encounter too often that same kind of blind ignorance.