The nigger lover
Back in the day, I attended the only high school in Cherokee County. The populace was not that diverse; we had maybe a 4% black and 0% Hispanic population.
One of my fellow students was a girl named Gail W-----. She was tall, good-looking, and a certified genius. She was also black.
Gail played in the high school’s marching band, as did I. As part of a 12-person drum corps, we had traveled together, spent hours talking on the band bus, and shared college-prep classes at school. We were what you’d call “good buddies”, and there was never a racial issue to hang between us.
So, it was a typical Friday night. There was a home football game, followed by a “sock hop” at the high school gym. The band did its thing for the crowd in the bleachers. After the game, we dispersed to change out of our uniforms. Walking back to the far corner of the gym, I asked Gail if she was going to the sock hop.
“No, I hadn’t planned on it. Nobody asked,” was her reply. There were some black dudes at Cherokee High, but they were apparently intimidated by Gail’s intellect.
“Okay, get changed, and I’ll meet you at the door.” It came quickly, easily, and naturally. I didn’t even have lustful designs; I wanted to take my friend dancing.
Gail changed her clothes, and called her mom to inform her she was going to the dance, and I would bring her home before midnight.
Sock hops are so-called because of potential damage to the hardwood floors of the gymnasium basketball court by hard-soled street shoes. In my day, you had to take said shoes off and park them before you could go on the floor and boogie.
Gail and I did so. We got a couple of sidelong glances from the teacher/chaperones, but no one ventured a comment as we danced, and I bought her a Coke. The band was local, and good. Gail and I danced the night away to Traffic and Grand Funk Railroad.
About 11:30, it was time to leave. We retrieved our shoes, and headed for the parking lot and my ’63 Chevy Biscayne. The car was where I’d left it, but its characteristics had changed. The tires were slashed and flattened; the windshield and headlights were smashed.
No one confronted us directly. The act of cowardly vandalism was allowed to pass, and speak for itself. I called my father, who got out of bed, dressed, and picked us up. We drove Gail home, and I apologized to her as she apologized to me.
On the way home, I asked my dad if there was a problem here. “I have worked at the Post Office for 25 years, much of it with Negroes. There is no problem.”
For Dad, it was just a roadside rescue.
The next day being Saturday, we were up early in the morning to buy tires, so I could run the car to PeeWee Murdoch’s repair shop and have the glass replaced. By Monday, I was up, running, and street-legal. I drove to school, parked in my approximate space, and went to my locker for the books for my first period class.
Wayne S----. A big boy, who liked throwing his weight around, stepped up behind me. He slammed my locker door. “How’s it goin’, nigger lover?”
It was on. There was no confrontation; there was no exchange of words. I hit that SOB so hard I split his eye socket with the first blow, and then I sat on his chest and pounded his face into the floor. By the time they pulled me off of him, I had the reputation of a merciless, bloodthirsty bastard. I got three days’ suspension to cool off. Wayne S--- later blew up a bank in a robbery attempt. The bank was trashed, and he got 15-20.
(I learned something about fighting a long time ago. Just because the opponent goes down, he ain’t out. Using a weapon, shoot until he’s down. Hand-to-hand, beat him into the floor and watch for a twitch.)
I made my manners with Gail’s mama. She met my daddy. No one had any problems. Gail has gone on to follow some genius path, I’m sure.
I am a son of the South. I am a proud member of Sons of Confederate Veterans. I respect my heritage, but if you call me a racist because of where I come from, I’ll kick your ass.
One of my fellow students was a girl named Gail W-----. She was tall, good-looking, and a certified genius. She was also black.
Gail played in the high school’s marching band, as did I. As part of a 12-person drum corps, we had traveled together, spent hours talking on the band bus, and shared college-prep classes at school. We were what you’d call “good buddies”, and there was never a racial issue to hang between us.
So, it was a typical Friday night. There was a home football game, followed by a “sock hop” at the high school gym. The band did its thing for the crowd in the bleachers. After the game, we dispersed to change out of our uniforms. Walking back to the far corner of the gym, I asked Gail if she was going to the sock hop.
“No, I hadn’t planned on it. Nobody asked,” was her reply. There were some black dudes at Cherokee High, but they were apparently intimidated by Gail’s intellect.
“Okay, get changed, and I’ll meet you at the door.” It came quickly, easily, and naturally. I didn’t even have lustful designs; I wanted to take my friend dancing.
Gail changed her clothes, and called her mom to inform her she was going to the dance, and I would bring her home before midnight.
Sock hops are so-called because of potential damage to the hardwood floors of the gymnasium basketball court by hard-soled street shoes. In my day, you had to take said shoes off and park them before you could go on the floor and boogie.
Gail and I did so. We got a couple of sidelong glances from the teacher/chaperones, but no one ventured a comment as we danced, and I bought her a Coke. The band was local, and good. Gail and I danced the night away to Traffic and Grand Funk Railroad.
About 11:30, it was time to leave. We retrieved our shoes, and headed for the parking lot and my ’63 Chevy Biscayne. The car was where I’d left it, but its characteristics had changed. The tires were slashed and flattened; the windshield and headlights were smashed.
No one confronted us directly. The act of cowardly vandalism was allowed to pass, and speak for itself. I called my father, who got out of bed, dressed, and picked us up. We drove Gail home, and I apologized to her as she apologized to me.
On the way home, I asked my dad if there was a problem here. “I have worked at the Post Office for 25 years, much of it with Negroes. There is no problem.”
For Dad, it was just a roadside rescue.
The next day being Saturday, we were up early in the morning to buy tires, so I could run the car to PeeWee Murdoch’s repair shop and have the glass replaced. By Monday, I was up, running, and street-legal. I drove to school, parked in my approximate space, and went to my locker for the books for my first period class.
Wayne S----. A big boy, who liked throwing his weight around, stepped up behind me. He slammed my locker door. “How’s it goin’, nigger lover?”
It was on. There was no confrontation; there was no exchange of words. I hit that SOB so hard I split his eye socket with the first blow, and then I sat on his chest and pounded his face into the floor. By the time they pulled me off of him, I had the reputation of a merciless, bloodthirsty bastard. I got three days’ suspension to cool off. Wayne S--- later blew up a bank in a robbery attempt. The bank was trashed, and he got 15-20.
(I learned something about fighting a long time ago. Just because the opponent goes down, he ain’t out. Using a weapon, shoot until he’s down. Hand-to-hand, beat him into the floor and watch for a twitch.)
I made my manners with Gail’s mama. She met my daddy. No one had any problems. Gail has gone on to follow some genius path, I’m sure.
I am a son of the South. I am a proud member of Sons of Confederate Veterans. I respect my heritage, but if you call me a racist because of where I come from, I’ll kick your ass.
posted by Robert at 12:35 AM
3 Comments:
I've gone out with black, brown, white and yellow girls...but more recently, when I like to believe we've become a more enlightened society.
Of course, I'm not naive; I know a lot of racism still exists in this country, and it isn't limited to white folks, either...
Great story Possum. Only one problem: You used the "N" word. Therefore, you are hereby found guilty of being "un-PC" to the third degree, and will be dragged through the mud by Al Sharpton and Jessie Jackson... video at 11:00.
(:D) Best regards...
I guess the part where you talked about kicking that guy's ass was cool, but the rest of your writing is pretty terrible and bad. I would call it terribad.
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