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Happy Birthday, Miss Teenie Bird!

Miss Teenie, circa 1956, Port Arthur, Texas

Whenever I think about my brave and beautiful big sister, Argentine Nicholas Guidry, the word “fearless” comes to mind more than any other. 

Fifteen years my senior, “Teenie Bird,” as she was affectionately known to family and friends, taught me a lot. Among other lessons, she taught me how to “slam bones (dominoes),” how to attract the attention of a girl I was interested in, and trusted me enough to drive her car before I had a license. 

But one of the most lasting things she instilled in me was the importance of standing up for yourself, even in the face of overwhelming odds. 

I remember learning, while tagging along with her one bright summer afternoon in Port Arthur to run an errand downtown for our father, that my sister didn't just talk the talk about courage, she did indeed live what she preached. I was about ten years old. 

Shortly after turning off Houston Avenue and heading east on Procter, Teenie rolled dad’s ’56 Olds to a stop at a red light. When the light turned green, she started off, but immediately slammed on the brakes to avoid a carload of rednecks flying into the intersection from the right! 

With tires screeching and black smoke billowing from the rear, the raggidy, fish-tail Plymouth made a hard left in front of us, barely missing our bumper!  And as the car flashed past us, the scraggly, red bearded driver stuck his scowling face out the window and yelled "nigger" as loud as he could. 

My sister abruptly threw the transmission into "Park," jumped out of the car into the middle of Procter, and started yelling after the rednecks:  “YOUR MAMA’S A NIGGER, (BLEEPER BLEEPER!)!! 

For a split second I froze, paralyzed by the triple shock of almost being blind-sided by a Confederate flag-flying gang of klansmen, hearing the word “nigger” as only an angry white person can pronounce it, and by my sister’s explosive response. 

The sound of screeching tires brought me out of my trance as the Plymouth slid to a stop a few yards down the street! I whirled around in the passenger seat, trying to see what the rednecks were up to. 

The driver got out of the car, staring at Teenie! “What did you say?” he screamed! 

“You heard what I said, peckerwood!” Teenie screamed back. “Your mama’s a nigger!” 

Just as the big redneck lunged toward us, two of his cronies sprang from the back seat of the Plymouth and restrained him. From what I could hear, they were saying “Red, let it go! We gotta get out of here!. That nigger bitch is crazy! Let it go!” 

The two men managed to get Red back to their car. But before he got in he pointed at my sister. “I’ll get you, nigger!” he shrieked. 

As Teenie yelled a few more choice remarks in the direction of the Plymouth flying down Procter toward Houston Avenue, it dawned on me that these rednecks might change their minds and hook a U-Turn! 

I flipped open dad’s glove compartment and started frantically rummaging through papers, hoping to find the .38 he often carried! It wasn’t there! 

Small clusters of people, mostly white, were beginning to gather on both sides of the street. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but a few of them pointed at us and then pointed toward Houston Avenue. 

“Teenie!” I yelled, “Let’s go before those fools come back!” 

“I wish they would!” she said, surveying the flight path of the Plymouth one last time before sliding back under the steering wheel. I turned and scanned the street behind us. The car was nowhere in sight. 

“Never let ‘em see you’re scared,” said Teenie, touching up her hair in the rear-view mirror while we waited for the next green light. “If you do, they’ll make your life miserable.” 

Fortunately, my sister and I completed our trip to the bank to take care of dad’s business, and back to the West Side without any more problems. 

At the time of this incident Teenie weighed maybe a hundred and twenty-five pounds, tops. But as I and everyone who knew her can attest, when it comes to standing up for yourself in the face of adversity, you will never find a bigger person, or a better example of courage under fire.

“It’s better to die fighting,” she told me that long ago day in Port Arthur, “than to live your whole life being scared.” 

It is a lesson that has served me well, and a lesson I will never forget. 

Happy Birthday, Miss Teenie Bird! We all miss you so much. 

© Paul Howard Nicholas

Message to Black People in America, Part 3

This is the third in a series of three installments taken from Chapter Seven of Extinguishing the Flames of Hell: A Journey of Spiritual Evolution by Paul Howard Nicholas. 

Topics covered in Parts 1 and 2 of this presentation were: 

1)    Slavery and the destruction of cultural identity 

2)    Selective extermination 

3)    Economic oppression 

4)    Break-up of the black family 

 Part 3 continues with Insufficient transfer of assets and Development of a culture of mediocrity: 

5)    Insufficient transfer of assets.  Unfortunately, African Americans transfer less wealth from one generation to the next than any other group in the country. This means that the average black person starts his or her life at a significant disadvantage when compared to members of other ethnic groups.

Some would say this situation is caused by a “I got mine, you get yours” black mentality. The truth, however, is that this problem can’t be seriously addressed until we overcome economic oppression, and reunite the black family. 

In order to transfer wealth to our descendents, the wealth first has to be created the old fashioned way: through hard work, combined efforts, and sacrifice. Then we will have to ensure that our children are raised to become worthy recipients of their inheritance, and that they are inspired to pass on an even greater legacy to their own heirs.

In the meantime, every black parent should dedicate a portion of every paycheck, no matter how small, to a savings/investment account for his or her children. The bottom line is that the children will benefit from knowing that their parents love them, regardless of the amount of money involved.

And, even if the weekly or bi-weekly contributions to the accounts seem small, these funds, wisely managed over eighteen years, will provide our young people with a foundation of financial stability as they take on the challenges of becoming productive, independent adults in a highly competive world.

Another thought to keep in mind is that love is also an important asset in the life of every human being. The same is true for integrity, sincerity, and faith in God. And they are assets that can be transferred from one generation to the next. 

6)    A culture of preferred mediocrity.  Why are so many black children terrified about being labeled smart by their peers? Like the black honor student who intentionally trys to appear less intelligent to gain acceptance among other blacks who are more interested in partying and fashions than they are in SAT scores, many of our gifted children are failing to truly appreciate and fully apply their God given talents.

 In today’s world, it often seems that the more intelligent a young black person appears to be, the harder it becomes for him or her to fit in with their "homies."

But how did we get to the point where a side-ways cap wearing, woman bashing, obscenity mumbling, crotch grabbing, saggy-pants rapper can count on much more respect and support from our young people than a dedicated black doctor, engineer, or scientist? And why has some version of this negative mentality been passed from one generation of African Americans to the next?

To understand this phenomenon, one must turn back the clock to a time in black history when stupidity was a more desirable trait than intelligence. Difficult to accept, but true. 

During slavery, if a black woman had an exceptionally bright child, the only way she could hope to save him from extermination or isolation was to teach him to conceal his intelligence. (This was a survival tactic similar to a slave mother teaching her healthy young son the “pimp walk” so the master would think the child was crippled and not bother trying to sell him.) 

Consequently, over the course of several centuries, a perverted, but necessary, set of equations became firmly entrenched in the minds of black people: mediocrity = life, intelligence = death. (See "Selective extermination" in part one of this presentation.)

In light of our history in America, it is easy to understand how our values regarding intelligence have become twisted. And four hundred years of indoctrination will be difficult to overcome. 

But if we don’t start teaching our children what mediocrity and intelligence really mean in a free society, they will never be inspired to use their God given abilities to reach their fullest potential. 

This presentation concludes Natural Light Network’s Black History Month Special. As always, your feedback is appreciated. 

 © Paul Howard Nicholas  

Black Boys in Jeopardy: 10 Poems

Ten poems dedicated to the countless black boys in America who run into trouble while teaching themselves to be men:

Perfect Balance

With medicated fears/tranquilized emotions

I dance on a tightrope between

darkness and daylight

without a net.

Forward…

Backward…

I have mastered the act,

high above the madness, yet

far beneath the sky.

After the Crash

Two ravaged vehicles sit awkwardly sprawled

on their knees, mortally injured,

unable to face each other.

Hissing, cringing in shock, they glare

at the curious crowds gathering

beneath a high noon sky.

Their broken eyes cry steamy streams of

bright green tears that splash on the pavement

and dribble over pebbles in a race

to the gutter.

Large ribbons of twisted metal,

ripped from their posts,

lie scattered on the asphalt,

reflecting sunlight amid

a heavy sprinkling of shattered glass

spattered with a spray of

alcohol and blood.

Drunk Tank

Feeling too heavy inside a hollow block

of ice…

Days over my head, hours under my feet…

Looking at life through a crack in my heart,

keeping things out that would keep me

locked in, struggling to bounce back

from a head-cracking collision

with a concrete floor,

sticky with the sickness of the dying

and the dead.

Robbery

With my sack packed,

filled by a man who loved his life

more than money, I

jump behind the wheel

of a barely running car, tearing off

into the night!

Loud music booms from my speakers,

blocking out the pleading voice

of the conscience I left behind

and the maniacal laughter of Mr. Payback

lurking up ahead.

Correctional Education

This is where we study

the infinitely intricate structure of the

permanent upper hand,

where the apprentice learns to master

many different patterns of colorful deceit,

where the weak become more aware

of the strong,

where lessons inspire weapons for

a survivor’s defense.

Yes, this is where we study,

striving for the diploma that will

unlock the front door.

Attack Therapy: Inside the Fish Tank

An unfortunate group of the highly stressed

make clever commitments to live better lives,

bathing the master’s ear in medicine so vital

to his health.

Under the guise of progress they practice

a vicious game, chewing petty secrets

down to the quick,

cursing the demons they say drove them mad,

challenging others to purge the venom from their brains,

tearing at crusty scabs that shield soft, fleshy wounds.

They yell and swear, a few even cry

till the musty little room reeks with a pungent,

fuming mixture of anger and fear.

But the timekeeper outside can’t wait any longer.

It’s time to go home.

Ignoring the hearts and minds nailed to the walls,

he points to the cheap watch choking his wrist.

Business as usual.

Get back to your cells!

On an Island Called Jail

How long will these fireflies of hope

flicker in the darkness, offering so little

in ways to light my path?

How much longer can I beat down the anger

that would easily consume my life?

And what shall be my pace in this race

of the wise, and the swift,

and the unburied dead?

Visiting Day at a Quarter to Three

Your warm embrace and tender, farewell kiss

lift me into a different realm of existence.

A bright beam of light propels me forward

to a far away place where

nights of pure satin, and unleashed passion

let me touch you deep inside.

I could hold you close forever

in this spinning autumn wind, lost

and yet protected from the empty days alone,

sheltered from the distance between us that

grows with each good-bye…

But reality intrudes to pull you from my arms,

testing my strength, teasing my needs,

taunting my soul with an unfinished dream.

And so I watch you walk away

into the spaces where our future lives…

looking back, a sigh beneath a smile…

so pretty in the sunlight,

so precious in my heart.

A Prayer Someone Once Prayed for Me

Our Heavenly Father,

we come before you to request Devine Intervention

in the emergency rescue of a drowning soul.

The energy of this confused, restless spirit is enormous

but he has taken the wrong river and, at this very moment,

faces mortal extinction, thrashing about wildly

in a whirlpool of lies, cursing the darkness,

growing weaker by the hour.

And, while we do acknowledge the faults and misdeeds

of our wayward brother,

so do we also pray for Your merciful consideration of

his greater self,

asking that You brighten his midnight sky

with even the faintest flicker of lightening

so that his eyes may focus upon the nearness of the shore

and upon the many strong, outstretched hands.

Amen.

Act Four

I portrayed the fool, broke every rule

till even I believed the role.

Then I learned the part of the wooden heart

to silence questions in my soul.

Now I pray to see a better me,

never too heated, never too cold.

© Paul Howard Nicholas

Message to Black People in America, Part 2

This is the second in a series of three installments taken from Chapter Seven of Extinguishing the Flames of Hell: A Journey of Spiritual Evolution by Paul Howard Nicholas. 

Topics covered in Part 1 of this presentation were: 

1)   Slavery and the destruction of cultural identity; and 

2)   Selective extermination 

Part 2 continues with Economic oppression and Break-up of the black family: 

3) Economic oppression. Traditionally, black people in the American workforce have been the last to be hired, the least likely to be promoted, and the first to be fired. And, until recently, start-up capital, mortgage loans, and other lines of credit, when extended to African Americans, came with interest rates much higher than the rates paid by whites. Stock and bond investment opportunities remain largely ignored in the black community due to a lack of education in financial matters. 

These factors over the years have combined to keep generations of black Americans in an economic rut. And just as we are starting to see improvements in certain areas of the financial arena, a new challenge has emerged: the loss of jobs formerly held by black people to undocumented immigrants. 

People desperate enough to work for significantly less compensation are steadily replacing the men and women that helped create the black middle class with wages earned in construction, maintenance, and the service industry. And judging by the seemingly unstoppable flow of unskilled laborers into the United States, the trend appears to be irreversible. 

So where do we go from here? Should we wait for others to improve our economic situation, or should we take control of our own destiny?  The only viable option for black people in America, if we truly want a brighter future, is to pool our available resources in the interest of creating our own corporations and jobs. 

This can be accomplished if wealthy black celebrities and athletes would be willing to come out of isolation and help lay the foundation for a black industrial and financial empire. Collectively, we have the resources. Individually, we must develop the will to move forward. And by the grace of God, we will succeed. 

4) Break-up of the black family.  The American system of welfare, as it existed prior to the welfare reform movement, was one of the worst things that could have ever happened to black people. 

In simple terms, the system rewarded black women for having babies as long as they agreed to live separately from the men in their lives. This condition for “staying on the county” put many black mothers in the position of having to choose between welfare benefits and the fathers of their children. 

Unfortunately, countless black men, especially those with employment challenges, were told to “hit the road.” The situation was made considerably worse when the mandatory one-year residency requirement for welfare assistance was reduced to just three days. The result was a massive migration of poverty-stricken mothers with fatherless children from rural areas into the poorer sections of major cities, where they were guaranteed food and shelter indefinitely. 

To get a bigger welfare check, the only two things a woman had to do were: a) have more illegitimate children; and b) make sure there was no male role model living in the household.

Predictably, many of the daughters of these women followed in their mothers’ footsteps, becoming welfare recipients themselves. And the sons, like their fathers, walked away from their own children. 

The repercussions of this insane government program have been devastating to the black community: a culture of dependency, high crime rates, low self-esteem, and a lingering legacy of hostility between African American men and women that has contributed to the break-up of too many black families.

And the influx of poor people into traditional black neighborhoods, beginning in the late 1960s, had another lasting, often overlooked, negative effect. It encouraged black middle class flight. 

As the disadvantaged newcomers poured into the inner cities across the country, many upwardly mobile African Americans, newly emancipated by equal housing provisions of the Civil Rights Act, abandoned black neighborhoods in droves and relocated to white areas. This loss of resources and leadership at a critical time accelerated the decline of the black community and dealt a severe blow to black unity. 

In assessing the total impact of the welfare system on black people in America, it becomes clear that the government’s “free money” has come at a very high price: the break-up of individual black families and the displacement of the larger family of community. 

But we do not have to accept this sad state of affairs as a permanent condition. If we are ever going to turn the situation around, we must begin by instilling in our children one of the most important values of our ancestors: don’t bring babies into the world until you are married and prepared to make sacrifices to raise them. 

Strong families are the foundation upon which empires are built. 

And when you do establish a family, take care to create and maintain the type of environment in your home that is worthy of God's protection.  

(To be continued in the third of three segments.  The next installment will cover Insufficient Transfer of Assets and Development of a Culture of Mediocrity.) 

This presentation is an excerpt from Extinguishing the Flames of Hell. 

 ©Paul Howard Nicholas 

Message to Black People in America, Part 1

As an avid chess player since the age of twelve, I have encountered a number of white people over the years that were genuinely surprised to discover that a black person could give them a run for their money in such a “mental” game. Their stereotypical images of blacks just didn’t include people who played chess.

And, like the brother who underestimates a white opponent and loses his lunch money in a game of one-on-one playground hoops, a lot of them waited until it was too late to take the competition seriously.      

On one such occasion, after I had prevailed in two out of three close games, my opponent, a jovial, talkative, middle-aged white man offered his congratulations, and asked if I could spare a few moments. He said he’d never had much personal contact with black people, but had always wanted to know what the average intelligent black person really thought about their plight in America. (Apparently, in his view, beating him at chess qualified me as “intelligent.”)  

While he expressed admiration for our ability to survive centuries of adversity, he was, nevertheless, curious about my views on why, after over four hundred years in this country, black people still seem to be lagging behind other ethnic groups in every category of economics and education. 

I responded with the standard reasons for the slow pace of progress in black communities: the legacy of slavery, destruction of our cultural roots, lack of economic and educational opportunities, etc.   

But the man countered with the contention that other groups had endured severe hardships in America, with the exception of institutionalized slavery, and managed to move up the food chain.      

I stood my ground as best I could, stressing the devastating effects of slavery in a foreign land coupled with a complete elimination of self-identity. My strong point was that there are no textbook solutions for black people’s problems because no other group in history has ever been subjected to crimes of this nature on such a massive scale.    

And so our conversation basically ended in a stalemate. I understood why the man would ask such questions, and he accepted my answers. But the questions lingered.  

Why are we always at the bottom? Why are our test scores and incomes consistently the lowest of all American citizens?  Why do most of us live in the worst neighborhoods?  I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be a clearer picture of both the origins of our problems and the steps that will have to be taken to fix them.        

In response to my prayers for a better understanding of the plight of my people, I discovered pearls of insight hiding in plain sight.  The following is a list of historical events and forces that have played a large part in shaping the lives of African Americans: 

 1) Slavery and the destruction of cultural identity

 2) Selective extermination

 3) Economic oppression

 4) Break-up of the black family

 5) Insufficient transfer of assets

 6) Development of a culture of mediocrity 

 

1)    Slavery and the destruction of cultural identity.  While it is true that other ethnic groups have been enslaved by dominant cultures, the ancestors of the vast majority of African Americans arrived in this country as victims of the largest and most prolonged mass kidnapping in the history of the world.

Black Americans are also unique in that we are the only group of people ever to have our cultural ties to our motherland forcefully and permanently severed. These are facts of history that cannot be altered. They are what they are. 

The down side of this travesty is that we lost our cultural identity. The upside, however, is that we have, by the grace of God and our own sheer determination, created a vibrant new culture of art, cuisine, and customs that has helped us become the healthiest and wealthiest group of black people on the face of the Earth.

And so it is important that we stop shedding tears over the indignities of our past and rejoice in the reality of who we are as a people so that we can build upon our strengths to ensure a brighter future.

2)    Selective extermination.  The main reason African American students consistently score lower than most other Americans on proficiency tests is that the gene pool of black people in America has been artificially manipulated to exclude intelligence.

The process of eliminating intelligent people from slave stocks began when slaveholders realized that large, strong, IQ-challenged slaves were desirable assets, while smart, resourceful slaves could be a dangerous liability. 

The very existence of an intelligent black man or woman contradicted the whole theory of white superiority. And there was the very real possibility that a smart slave might inspire other slaves to rebel against the master or flee the plantation. 

The exception to this rule was the intelligent slave that could provide entertainment for the residents of the “big house” and their associates. Since access to quality entertainment was limited in early America, these slaves were highly prized and, like successful black celebrities today, kept largely isolated from the ordinary laborers. 

The majority of intelligent slaves, however, from the beginning of the trans Atlantic slave trade, were effectively prevented from producing numerous offspring, more often than not, by homicide. 

After emancipation, the practice of eliminating intelligent black men and women continued virtually unabated. The code name used by whites for a smart, assertive black person well into the 20^th century was “uppity.” Being labeled as such usually meant a violent death or a long stretch in prison. 

This system of gene pool manipulation, perpetrated over hundreds of years, is unique in the history of mankind. Other ethnic groups have become victims of genocide, but African Americans are the only group of human beings that have been subjected to the surgical removal of the best and brightest among them over the course of several centuries. And the situation has been made worse by the absence of equal educational opportunities for most black children. 

This information is not offered as an excuse for the poor performance of black Americans. It is simply a statement of biologic fact, a perfect example of cause and effect. 

Think of it this way:  The next time you feel disheartened by consistent low test scores among black students, or embarrassed by loud, disrespectful brothers and sisters in a public setting, ask yourself what the average white American or Asian American would be like today if the brightest stars in the galaxies of their respective gene pools had been systematically snuffed out during the last four hundred years. 

The legacy of selective extermination is a lingering hindrance to progress for African Americans. On the plus side, we are blessed with many outstanding athletes and entertainers. The down side, however, is that we aren’t producing enough doctors, scientists, and engineers.

 If we are to overcome the negative effects of losing such an important segment of our genetic heritage, then we must begin by becoming more involved in educating our children, both at home and in specialized programs designed to address the specific deficiencies of black children. 

And it is essential that we pray for God’s guidance, and for an abundance of gifted children. 

(To be continued in the second of three segments.  The next installment will cover Economic Opression and The Breakup of the Black Family.)  

This presentation is an excerpt from Extinguishing the Flames of Hell.

 

Santa’s Kids: The Pros and Cons of Encouraging Our Children to Believe in the “God of Christmas”

My earliest recollection of associating white people with supernatural powers did not originate with images of Jesus or other biblical heroes. Like many of my peers, I first learned about the existence of a super powerful Caucasian during the Christmas holiday season.

The Yule Tide celebration marked the time of year when an all-seeing, all-knowing deity would reward the “good” with gifts, and give the “bad” their just due. His image and likeness was represented as a kindly white grandfather who reigned from a magic village at the top of the Earth.

According to adults, he was an amazing being. He could appear in several different stores at the same time, and could be counted on to remember the names of every child that sat on his lap, or wrote him letters, as well as what they wanted for Christmas. He knew when everybody was asleep, when they were awake, what they were doing, and he had the power to visit every home in the world in a single night!

When children misbehaved, parents invoked his name to remind them of his ability to monitor their every move.

The proposition for young children who wanted to cash in on their gift lists was enticing: believe in him, be good, and receive the gifts you want.

If a child had doubts about the truthfulness of these teachings, the story became overwhelmingly convincing on Christmas morning when toys and gifts that weren’t there the night before, magically appeared beneath the Christmas tree.

And so, like many other Americans similarly indoctrinated, I became a true believer in the “god of Christmas,” the first supernatural being I trusted to fulfill my wishes.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t our Heavenly Father, or His Son Jesus that I first placed my faith in. It was Santa Claus.

Some might argue that this is a harsh description of the ritualized story of Santa Claus and Christmas. They say it is merely a fable, a fantasy to nourish the imaginations of children.

But is this true? Is the legend of Santa Claus a harmless pastime for children?

A fable is most commonly defined as a story that ends with a lesson or moral instruction. The Hare and the Tortoise, for instance, teaches about the dangers of over-confidence, and the importance of staying focused. In The Ant and the Grasshopper, we learn about the value of hard work, and the folly of laziness. The Boy Who Cried Wolf offers a powerful lesson about personal credibility.

The most appealing attribute of a fable, however, is that it can provide insight that will help children of varying economic backgrounds gain a better understanding of life in the real world.

But can the same be said for the legend of Santa Claus? What lesson is there to be learned by the “good” child of poor parents who receives little or nothing for Christmas, or the “bad” child of wealthy parents who gets everything he wanted? This common scenario fails to deliver a meaningful message about positive behavior and self worth to both the rich child and the poor child.

But, enough about what the Santa Claus story fails to accomplish in modern society. Let us, instead, examine the manner in which this so-called harmless fable could possibly affect the developing mind and spirituality of a young child.

One of the most important responsibilities of any given human generation is to enhance existing knowledge and to improve methods of transferring accumulated knowledge to succeeding generations. It is the method by which mankind has evolved from cave dweller to space traveler.

An essential element of the successful transfer of information from one generation to the next, however, is the credibility of those providing the information. As is apparent in all human relationships, credibility, once damaged, is difficult to repair.

With this in mind, we should question the motivation of a culture that encourages its infants to believe in a mythical being that will eclipse the presence of God in their lives during the early, formative years. What is the upside, and the downside, of our children knowing far more about Santa Claus than they do about our Heavenly Father and Jesus?

The upside, according to many people who participate in the presentation of their children to Santa Claus, seems to be that they take pride in continuing a cultural tradition. The occasion also provides an opportunity for them to show family and friends that they are responsible parents who will sacrifice time, energy, money, whatever it takes to make sure their kids have a great Christmas.

But what is the downside of this practice?

Obviously, credibility is a vital part of any meaningful human interaction. And, in the case of parents and children, it should be as important as love and companionship.

Most people, however, never seem to appreciate the irony of a parent instructing a child not to lie because the parent wants to believe everything the child says, and then going to extraordinary lengths to orchestrate a hoax designed to convince the child of the existence of an imaginary being.

And what happens to a child’s relationship with parents and others entrusted with his or her development when the child discovers the truth?

Whether it is a huge disappointment, or merely a confirmation of something they already suspected, most children are able to rebound and carry on with their lives. But there will be a seed of doubt forever planted in their minds regarding the credibility of their elders, a subliminal reminder that information received from adults may, or may not, be factual.

And this seed of uncertainty, subconsciously embedded during a critical period of development, may come back to haunt the parent-child relationship at a time when the parent really needs the child to accept the parent’s instructions about the many dangers in the world such as drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, gambling, and so on.

While it may be true that there have been no scientific studies to determine if the celebration of the traditional American Christmas creates a negative impact on a child’s perception of adults, common sense would seem to indicate that programming our children from an early age to mistrust authority is not conducive to the successful transfer of knowledge from one generation to the next.

Another down side of the Santa Claus legend is the fact that parents don’t receive the gratitude and respect they deserve from their children for providing the toys and gifts they asked for. The truth regarding the often heroic efforts of parents to make their children happy is a much more inspiring story than the time-worn saga of “the jolly old elf.”

The most damaging consequence of perpetuating the Christmas myth, however, is that, once children realize they have been deceived about the existence of a supernatural being, they may become more inclined to question the existence of our Heavenly Father.

After all, if the Santa Claus they could see and touch turned out to be phony, how could anyone realistically expect them to readily embrace the concept of an invisible God?

© Paul Howard Nicholas

Bad Luck Blue: A Story of Black Sheep and White Powders

Plowing through a mini tornado of dust and trash, Jimmy “Blue” Waters clutched his collar, held his breath, and continued the four block trudge to his job. His visions of freedom, while serving time for cocaine possession, had not included the harsh realities of life for a twenty-nine year old ex-con with a tenth grade education.

As he watched the morning rush of drivers whiz past him, protected from the whirling March winds inside their nice warm cars, Blue realized that, in many ways, he was no better off on the streets of Los Angeles than he’d been in state prison.

Trapped behind the walls of a subsistence job and a strict parole officer, Blue felt like he was still doing time. Even the bathroom he shared with an assortment of losers in the cheap rooming house reminded him of prison: dirty, broken mirrors reflecting fractured dreams.

And just as he’d often done in prison, Blue thought about putting together an escape plan.

The sudden appearance of a black-and-white patrol car next to him put his thoughts in check. Blue watched from the corner of his eye as the police car slowed enough to allow the two white officers inside to get a good look at him.

When the car finally sped away, Blue relaxed, feeling very much like a small fish that had been tossed back into a pond.

By the time he pushed through the double glass doors of Henry’s House of Bar-B-Que, Blue's sunshine mask was firmly in place. “Good morning, ladies,” he called out to his two co-workers.

“’Good morning, Blue,” they chimed.

Peggy, the matronly grandmother, was busy unloading and stacking the Styrofoam containers they would use to fill orders.

The young one, Mildred, loading receipt paper into the cash register, as always, gave Blue a big smile.

Blue smiled back, thinking about the possibilities with Mildred if she ever managed to lose thirty pounds.

“Mr. Henry said he needs to see you,” said Mildred.

Blue headed to the locker area, hung up his jacket and cap, and donned his butcher’s apron. “Did he say what he wants?”

“No, he didn’t. He just asked us to tell you to come to his office as soon as you got here.”

“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.” Blue finished tying his apron strings and headed for the small office in the back room. He knocked on the door and heard the familiar gruff voice invite him in.

Charlie Henry was the type of man Blue respected. In the thirty years since his arrival from Mississippi, the short, stocky owner of Henry’s House of Bar-B-Que and Henry’s Dry Cleaners had worked his way up from fry cook at a downtown hotel to successful business man.

“Morning, Mr. Henry. Mildred said you wanted to see me.”

“Good morning, Blue. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Puffing on his ever present cigar, Charlie Henry punched a few more entries into the adding machine on his crowded desk. Apparently satisfied with the tally, he stretched and leaned back in his comfortable chair.

“Blue, I guess I should tell you that when we hired you six months ago, I had serious doubts about whether things would work out. After seeing so many guys get out of jail and go right back to acting a fool, I really didn’t think hiring you was such a good idea.”

Blue shifted uneasily in his chair.

“But I took a chance,” continued Charlie Henry. “And I’m glad I did. From day one you’ve proven to be a reliable worker. And you seem to have a special gift when it comes to dealing with people. My wife told me about how you handled those drunks in here the other day.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal, Mr. Henry. I just did what I had to do.” Blue shifted again, trying to get a grip on what his boss was saying. He was unaccustomed to receiving praise.

“Well, I just wanted to say thanks for keeping things from getting out of hand,” said Charlie Henry. “But I didn’t call you in here to fill your ears with a lot of words and send you on your way. That wouldn’t do either of us much good.”

Charlie Henry clasped his hands together, propped his elbows on his desk, and looked straight into Blue's eyes. “Blue,” he said, “sometimes all a man needs to make something of himself is a chance. Nobody knows how many people there are in the world that are locked up, or wasting their brains on dope, that could have been successful if somebody had given them a real chance.”

Checking his watch, Charlie Henry cut his sermon short. “But,like I said, Blue, I didn’t call you in here just to give you a pat on the back. So, if you’re interested in a chance for advancement, and if you think you’d like to settle down and make a life for yourself, I’m prepared to offer you a promotion and a salary that would pay a lot more than the hourly wage you’re getting now.”

Blue leaned forward. “What kind of promotion are we talking about?”

“Well,” said Charlie Henry, “we’re going to be opening a new restaurant in the Crenshaw Center in a few months. And since we plan to move my office over there, I was thinking about giving you the job of helping Charlie Jr. run this place and our cleaners next door. I like the way you handle yourself, Blue, and I’m sure you’d make a great assistant manager if you put your mind to it.”

“Are you serious?” Blue couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all these years, was someone actually trying to give him a break?

Charlie Henry studied the man across from him carefully. “Yes, I’m serious,” he replied. “To start, you’d be in charge of the day shift, supervising the workers here and at the cleaners, ordering supplies, and making sure things run the way they should. I’ve talked to my wife and Charlie Jr. about this and we all feel that you’re the man for the job. But the bigger question is: do you think you’re ready to take on that kind of responsibility?”

The words came automatically. “I sure am! When do I start?”

“Well, there’s one small hitch,” said Charlie Henry.

“Okay." Blue settled back in his chair.

“Before you start the job, I want you to attend a four week night class sponsored by the Small Business Administration at Westview Community College. The next course cycle starts a week from today and, since you’re off tomorrow, you should be able to get over there and sign up."

“That’s cool with me,” said Blue.

“Good, good,” replied Charlie Henry. “I guess that settles it then.” The portly man leaned back in his large chair again, puffing his cigar. He was thoroughly satisfied with Blue’s responses and proud of his own ability to give another black man a chance to do something with his life.

Sensing the meeting was over, Blue rose from his seat and extended his hand. “I sure do appreciate this, Mr. Henry.”

Charlie Henry leaned forward and grasped Blue’s outstretched hand. “This is only the beginning,” he said. “We’re going to open several new places in the next few years and, if everything works as planned, you’ll be the first in line to move up even more.”

The rest of the day breezed by as Blue thought about the good news he’d received from Charlie Henry. A new, more stable way of life was now within reach.

Blue had never really made it big in the hustling world, mainly because he wasn’t capable of the ruthless disregard for right and wrong it took to be successful in street life. His career, since running away from his last foster home at the age of fifteen, had run the gamut of illicit enterprises, including dope dealing, pimping, bunco, burglary; forgery, grand theft, and robbery.

And although he’d done well at times, he figured that when he counted all the money he’d spent on bondsmen and attorneys, and the years he’d wasted in and out of jail, his average income over the years was less than that of a person who had consistently worked a square job.

But now all of that would be changed. He would trade in his dreams of pulling off the ultimate big score for the reality of hard work and legitimate success. Eventually, he told himself, he would be able to use his newfound knowledge to create his own financial empire, just like Charlie Henry.

And he would be able to show Shirley how stupid she was to leave him for a truck driver while he was in prison. Blue chuckled inside when he thought about the jolt of remorse that would shoot through her when she realized she’d missed out on a chance to share his good fortune.

Shortly before quitting time, while turning a slab of ribs, Blue noticed Willie, one of the neighborhood kids, barreling through the front entrance. Willie cleaned up around Henry’s after school and made deliveries to the poolrooms and taverns near Adams and Western. He was a ten year old hustler and an incorrigible prankster.

“Blue, I gotta show you somethin’, “ Willie whispered, motioning for Blue to follow him.

“Can’t you see I’m busy,” replied Blue. He wasn’t about to fall for another one of Willie’s pranks.

But Willie was hope-to-die serious. Glancing up front to make sure Peggy and Mildred were busy, Willie partially unzipped his parka, revealing a rolled up paper bag tucked into his pants.

“Come on!” he said. “I gotta show you this!”

Blue reluctantly followed Willie to the storage closet behind the employee lockers. He flipped on the light while Willie hastily opened the paper bag.

Blue peered cautiously into the bag and almost choked when he saw the contents. Inside were four condoms, filled with white powder.

“Where’d you get this?” Blue plucked one of the condoms from the bag and started untying the knot at the top.

“I was on my way home from school, over by the freeway,” said Willie. “And this car with two guys in it came speeding down the street. A cop car was chasing them. When they turned to get on the freeway ramp, one of the guys threw this bag out the window.”

“Did anybody see you pick it up?”

“No… I don’t think so.” Willie stammered.

“Are you sure, Willie? Were there any other kids with you?”

“No, I had to stay for detention. And when I got out, everybody was gone.”

:”What about the cops? Did they see them throw the bag?”

“No, they were too far behind.” It was starting to dawn on the boy that maybe he'd gotten hinself into something that was way over his head.

Blue poked his baby finger into the powder and touched it to his tongue. “Damn!” he whispered, frowning from the bitter taste.

“What is it, Blue?”

Blue retied the condom and placed it back in the bag. “Okay, look, first of all, I want you to pay attention to what I’m about to say because the guys who had to get rid of this stuff are gonna be real mad when they come back lookin' for it and can’t find it.”

“Maybe I should put it back,” Willie blurted.

“No,” said Blue. “I don’t think that would be too smart. The cops probably have that whole area staked out by now.”

“What is this stuff, Blue?”

“It’s dope,Willie, and it’s enough to get you thrown in jail if the cops catch you with it, or killed if the people looking for it find it on you.”

“Aw, man…” Willie’s eyes were wide as silver dollars."What should we do with it?”

“We got us a real serious situation here," Blue replied. "But it ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle.” Blue rolled the paper bag back up and slid it into his waistband under his apron. “All you got to do is keep your mouth shut and we’ll come out of this alright. I think we can make some money off of it after we let things cool down for a while. In the meantime, I’ll hide it, okay?”

Willie nodded, eager to be rid of the bag full of problems.

“But you’ve got to remember what I said.” Blue pressed his index finger against his lips. “Don’t tell anybody about this. If the wrong people find out, we both could end up dead or in jai!”

“Okay, Blue. Whatever you say.”

As soon as he left work, Blue stopped at a pay phone and called his cousin in Hollywood. Billy, Blue’s only relative in L.A. listened half-heartedly until he heard the magic words: “dope and money!”

“I’ll be right over,” said Billy.

Sitting on the side of his bed, Billy put the .38 revolver he’d been cleaning back in the night stand drawer. Blue’s call had interrupted his concentration on a plan to obtain some quick cash. Having just turned twenty-three, Billy was experiencing the bitter end of a two year run of beginner’s luck in the “fast lane.”

He’d missed two payments on his Benz, his landlord was on the verge of padlocking his recently leased apartment, he owed a substantial sum to a notoriously narrow-minded drug dealer, and he needed to raise bail money for all three of his girls, busted the previous night in police raids along the Sunset Strip.

But as he drove toward South Central to pick up his cousin, Billy’s attitude brightened considerably. If Blue said there was “big money” in whatever he had going, it was worth looking into.

When they arrived back at Billy’s building, he led Blue to the elevator in the underground parking area.

“You must be doin’ alright,” said Blue, noticing the expensive cars parked beneath the security high-rise.

“I’ll be doin’ alright when I start owning buildings like this,” chuckled Billy.

“That day might not be so far away, Billy Boy.”

The elevator ride delivered them to the eighth floor in seconds. Once inside the apartment, Billy performed a test on a sample from Blue’s package. Results from the chemical testing confirmed Blue’s taste test: the innocent looking white powder was indeed the most powerful grade of heroin either of them had ever seen. It could be cut ten times and still overdose a mule.

Blue and Billy slapped high fives and jumped around like two ball players that had just won the world series. They popped open a bottle of champagne and lifted a toast to the certain wealth they would soon acquire.

The next morning Blue called Charley Henry and told him he’d have to rush back to Texas to be with his dying mother. He didn’t like the idea of lying to the one person who had tried to help him build a new life—his mother had died after being shot in a bar when he was twelve years old—but when he thought about how he could make more in one day selling drugs than he could in a whole month working a square job, he knew his decision to get back into the “fast lane” was a “no-brainer.”

Charley Henry promised to hold Blue’s job for him as long as he could, and even offered to help with traveling expenses. Blue declined the offer.

Reflecting briefly on the long range plans Charley Henry had for him, Blue convinced himself that working a regular job was just something he wasn’t cut out to do. He could do it long enough to get his parole officer to cut him some slack but that was about it. The streets were his real home.

He did call Charley Henry one last time after a couple of weeks to thank him for offering him the position, and to lie again. Blue told him that he had contracted hepatitis and wouldn’t be able to work in food service any time soon.

In less than a month, Blue had accomplished a high speed version of the American Dream. With Billy handling most of the distribution end of their sixty-forty arrangement, Blue moved from the dingy rooming house to a beach front apartment in Venice and went from traveling on busses and the “ankle express” to tooling around town in a new 1983 powder blue Coup de Ville.

He had so many new clothes that he had to tell Billy to stop accepting the suits, leather jackets, slacks, shirts, etc. that junkies brought in lieu of cash for their daily fixes.

Blue kept up the rent on his room and used it as his permanent address. But he only stopped by occasionally to pick up what little mail he received.

And, as luck would have it, Blue’s overbearing parole officer was fired for soliciting sexual favors from females on his case load. The guy who replaced him was a hippy type that didn’t seem to care if Blue dropped off the face of the Earth.

As for Willie, Blue would meet him from time to time leaving school and give him several hundred dollar bills. He always told him to give the money to his mother and tell her he found it. But knowing Willie, Blue figured moms probably never saw a dime of the loot.

The only aspect of his life that he wasn’t able to put back together was his relationship with Shirley. She had completely squared up and seemed totally serious about her new life with the truck driver. She even refused the expensive gifts Blue had tested her with.

And although he enjoyed the company of countless females, he couldn’t quite get over the fact that he and Shirley would probably never be together again.

It was starting to register with Blue that there were some things his money couldn’t buy.

After nearly a year of the “good life” Blue started to get bored. And because of the larger volume of his business since he and Billy had started buying Persian dope from an Iranian connection, he found it increasingly more difficult to distinguish between his real friends and the people who were interested only in a free ride.

Another downer was the recurring nightmares that featured him being hunted down, arrested and sent back to prison.

To combat his episodes of depression, especially when he thought about his mom, Blue started trying to fill the empty spaces in his life with alcohol and larger doses of his own merchandise. He also became a regular at many of the favorite bars, strip joints, and hang-outs of the night life crowd.

And after one of his associates was robbed and murdered, Blue refused to go anywhere without his .357 Magnum. He knew it was an automatic trip to jail if he ever got caught with it, but he said he’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

Shortly after he started carrying the gun, while he and Billy waited in a Hollywood bar for Billy’s girls to bring in their nightly quota of cash, Blue got involved in a heated argument with another pimp over a game of pool. As the crowd of hustlers and their ladies closed in on the action, Blue seemed determined to start a fight.

Hardly anybody paid any attention to the square looking black dude and his girl-watching white companion sitting at the bar. Those that did figured them for tricks or tourists, looking for a good time.

Blue and the other guy, Eddie from Detroit, faced each other from opposite sides of the brightly lit bar sized pool table.

“You gotta be crazy, sucka, if you think I’m payin’ you for that shot!” Eddie was a good three inches taller than Blue’s even six feet, and out-weighed him by at least thirty pounds.

“Look, man,” Blue shouted back. “Since you don’t seem to remember, we’re playin’ for fifty dollars a game and you just lost! So why don’t you give me my money before this bullshit gets out of hand!”

“You must think I’m some kinda chump or somethin’,” Eddie yelled. “I saw you touch the cue ball before you made the eight and, as far as I’m concerned, you owe me!

Sensing the explosiveness of the situation, Billy attempted to pull Blue away from the table. “Come on, Blue. This ain’t about nothin’. Forget it… I’ll pay for the game.”

“Get out of the way, Billy!” Blue yelled, wrenching himself free from his cousin’s grasp. “This lyin’ bastard is gonna pay me what he owes!”

In a burst of motion, Eddie flipped his pool cue and with both hands took a wild, overhand swing at Blue!

“Look out, Blue!” a woman screamed.

Blue jerked his head out of the way, but the weighted end of the stick landed solidly on his shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

Blocked by the crowd on both sides, Eddie scrambled over the top of the table to finish Blue off, realizing too late that this was a fight he couldn’t win.

From the floor, Blue whipped out his revolver and fired, hitting the surprised Eddie three times before he fell on top of him.

Pandemonium broke out as screaming patrons bolted for the exits, turning over tables and chairs.

Billy rushed to his cousin’s side to help him get out from under the dead weight of the bleeding corpse. “Come on, Blue!” he yelled. We gotta get out of here!”

Blue seemed to be in a daze as he stumbled to his feet.

“Let’s go!” Billy screamed. He thought Blue was behind him when he broke for the door.

But Blue didn’t follow him. “Where’s my hat?” he mumbled, searching frantically for his prized fedora.

“Blue, let’s go, man!” Billy shouted from the front door.

Blue seemed to snap out of his fog and started toward his cousin without his hat.

Billy turned and ran for the car, determined to have it started and ready to roll when Blue got there.

But Blue never made it. Just before he reached the door, the casually dressed black man and his white partner jumped up from behind an overturned table.

“Freeze! Police!” they shouted, leveling their hand guns at Blue’s back from across the floor.

Forgetting the gun in his hand, Blue turned abruptly, igniting a thunderous barrage from the cops’ guns that slammed him backwards through the open door.

Jimmy “Blue” Waters died on the sidewalk in front of the bar before the ambulance ever received the call.

©Paul Howard Nicholas

Dedicated to my Longview, Texas homeboy, the late James Lilly.

More Nicholas and Related Families Photos

 
Family Reunion, Port Arthur, Texas, 1993

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Child's Play: An Eight-Year-Old's Introduction to Racism

I stood at the living room window, peering out at the empty street, hoping for a break in the rain. A sudden storm had roared into southeast Texas from the Gulf, hurling huge peppering flurries of swirling raindrops in every direction. 

My friends and I, when the first few sprinkles started to fall, had tried to continue our daily after school ritual of attempting to demolish each other’s spinning tops in a game we called “googie.” But the ensuing downpour, accompanied by booming thunder and crackling lightening, sent us all scrambling for the safety of our homes. 

The storm didn’t look like it was going to let up anytime soon so I turned on the television and plopped into my father’s big chair. 

Life just didn’t seem fair. It was the middle of September 1958, and trying to get used to being cooped up all day in a third grade classroom after a carefree summer was bad enough without Mother Nature washing away a chance to enjoy some free time. 

The sound of the phone ringing in the hallway abruptly ended my pity party.  

My mother, busy preparing supper, told me to take the call. 

I dashed to the phone and picked up the receiver. 

The girl on the other end identified herself as Gail (not her real name). “What’s your name?” she asked. 

I told her my name and we talked for several minutes.  

By the end of our conversation, I had a new friend.  She was nine years old, and seemed okay, for a girl. 

Following our chance meeting, Gail called me after school at about the same time over the next few days. 

My neighborhood crew found it hard to believe that I would rather talk to a girl than play googie or shoot marbles. 

Gail and I invariably talked about a lot of kid stuff:  favorite TV shows, games, foods, teachers, friends, etc.  And, even though she had never heard of my school, and I didn’t have a clue about hers, we found that we liked and disliked a lot of the same things. 

Our friendship blossomed as we provided each other with daily accounts of our experiences. 

And then Gail made a fateful request.  She said that if I really liked her, we should take turns calling each other, instead of her having to always call me. 

I agreed.

The next day, as soon as I got home from school, I dialed the number Gail had given me. 

An adult female answered. 

“May I speak to Gail, please?” 

“Hold on,” said the woman.  After a brief pause, she spoke again.  “Who is this?” 

I told her my name. 

“How old are you?” 

“Eight,” I said. 

“And what school do you go to?”  

I will never forget the anger in the woman’s voice when I told her the name of the all black elementary school I attended. 

“You’re a nigger?” she screamed. 

My whole body started to tremble.  “ Uh... no, ma’am,” I stammered.  “I’m colored.” 

“You black son-of-bitch!  How did you get this number?”  The woman’s anger boiled into full-blown rage! 

“Gail told me to call her.  I… I…”  The words just wouldn’t come.

“Gail!  Get yourself in here right now!”  Her voice was clearly audible even though I held the receiver several inches from my head.  “Did you give this little nigger our phone number?” 

I wanted to hang up, but couldn’t.  Gail’s voice in the background made me press the receiver to my ear.

“I didn’t know he was a nigger, mom!  I swear!  I called his number by accident one day, and we just started talking.”  Gail started to sob uncontrollably.  “I swear, mom, I swear I didn’t know!” 

“You stupid girl,” the woman growled.  “Go get my strap!  I’m gonna teach you a lesson about talking to niggers!” 

My heart thumped and bumped violently in my chest!  A fine mist of cold sweat dampened my forehead.  But still, I couldn’t hang up. 

The woman again focused her rage on me.  “You stinking nigger bastard!” she hissed.  “Don’t you ever call this number again!  Do you understand me?  If you do, I will have your black ass put in jail, or shot, or hung from a tree!  You got that?” 

Before I could answer, the line went dead.  I replaced the receiver and stood near the phone, frozen. 

“Are you finished?  I need to call your sister.”  My mother’s voice startled me.  “What’s the matter with you?” Like most mothers, she seemed to always know when something wasn’t right. 

I didn’t know where to begin. 

Mom placed her palm over my forehead.  “Are you feeling sick?” 

Somehow I managed to recount my harrowing experience with the woman on the phone. 

My mother, a mild mannered, good-natured woman until someone or something threatened her family, became visibly angry as I told her what had just happened.  She was aware of my daily talks with Gail, but assumed the girl was black. 

“Did you know she was white?” 

“We never talked about color," I replied. "I just thought she talked kind of funny, and she said the same thing about me.” 

Mom started to pace.  “How could a grown woman talk to a child like that?  Did you tell her Gail’s been calling you, too?” 

“Gail told her.  But she said she didn’t know I was a nigger.” 

Mom snatched the receiver from its cradle.  “Nobody’s gonna talk to my child like that and get away with it.  What is Gail’s number?” 

“Please, mom, please don’t. You’ll only make things worse.  The lady is crazy.  I promise I won’t talk to Gail again, ever.” 

After a few deep breaths, my mother regained her composure.  “Maybe you’re right.  God knows we don’t need any trouble with these stupid peckerwoods.  But let this be a lesson to you.  Unless you want to end up like Emmett Till, don’t get involved with white girls!  Don’t talk to them!  Don’t even look at them!  You hear me?” 

I promised. 

That night, after hearing the details about my brief friendship with Gail, my father repeated my mother’s warning about white girls.  They were nothing but trouble, he said. 

Again, I vowed to stay clear of white females. 

For the next few weeks, fearing repercussions over my fling with Gail, my dad drove me to school and picked me up.  And he told me to keep my mouth shut about the whole incident. 

The telephone encounter with Gail’s mother brought an abrupt end to my relationship with a curious, adventurous girl.  We never spoke to each other again. 

And, while I’ve often wondered what happened to her, I'm pretty sure I will never find out.

©Paul Howard Nicholas

De Segregation Blues: Black History Month Special

The bright hot sun climbed slowly into a clear May sky, steaming the streets, the trees, and the lush green grass, still soaked from a pre-dawn thunder shower. It would be another blistering day of spring heat along the Texas Gulf Coast—the kind of heat that, according to some, made everybody a little crazy.

High school sophomore, Adam Lee Jones, Jr., sitting at the kitchen table with his parents, toyed with a half-finished plate of grits and eggs and sausage.

“You alright, Junior?” Mary Jones leaned over the table and placed her palm over her son’s forehead.

“I’m okay, mom… just not too hungry,” the boy replied.

Adam Lee, Sr. washed down the last of his breakfast with a cup of strong dark coffee. The big black man leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

“You know, Junior,” he said. “If you go to that white school, them crackers ain’t gonna be babyin’ you like your mother, or looking out for you like the teachers you got over here.”

“Oh, come on, Adam Lee. Don’t start talkin’ like that again.” Mary Jones, still youthful and attractive at thirty-five, shared her husband’s outspoken temperament.

“I thought we agreed to leave the decision up to him.”

Adam Lee, Sr. brushed her objections aside. “That was before I knew he might really be willing to leave his friends at a school ten blocks away to go clear across town to a school where he might get lynched!”

“Why would you want to do that, Junior?” Adam Lee, Sr. tried and failed to make eye contact with his only child. “Do you think those white teachers are gonna be able to teach you better than the people who taught me and your mama?”

Adam Lee, Jr. shrugged. “No, dad, I don’t.”

“Then why would you want to go way over there? Did somebody talk you into this?”

The boy set his fork down and looked his father in the eye. “No, dad,” he said. “I’ve got my own reasons.”

Mary Jones came to her son’s rescue. “In case your memory’s fading, Adam Lee Jones, a lot of people have suffered so our son, and anybody else, can go to any school they choose. And if Junior is brave enough to be one of the first colored kids to go to Jeff Davis High, I think he ought to go.”

“But why does he have to break the ice?” Big Adam got up and started to pace. “I can understand the misfit kids transferring. They don’t have anything to lose. But Junior’s got a chance at a football or basketball scholarship.”

“He can play ball over there,” Mary countered.

“And how’s that gonna look?” Big Adam bellowed. “My own son, playin’ with the white boys against the team that me and all my friends played for!”

“If that’s gonna be a problem, dad, I don’t have to play sports. I’ll work hard and get some academic scholarships.” Adam Lee, Jr. just wanted the arguing to stop.

“You mean you’d give up sports to go to a white school?” The frustrated father stared at his son, shaking his head. “You better think about what you’re doin’, Junior.”

“Let’s go, Mary Ann,” he said, stalking out of the kitchen. “We’ve got a business to run.”

Mary Jones hugged her son. “I think he’s just worried about something happening to you. So am I. But somebody’s got to lead the way. And I’m just thankful you’ve got that kind of courage. Lord knows it’s about time the colored kids started reaping the benefits of all the tax money we’ve spent on those fancy white schools.”

She kissed the boy’s cheek and started clearing the dishes from the table. “Don’t let your father intimidate you,” she said. “If you want him to sign your transfer, you’ll have to explain why you really want to go to that school. So think about it, okay?”

“I will, mom,” he replied.

Adam Lee, Jr. gathered his school books and headed out the front door of the Jones’ modest home just as his parents were backing out of the driveway, on their way to another twelve hour day at Jones Dry Cleaners. Mother and son waved to each other. Mr. Jones kept his eyes trained on the rearview mirror.

Adam Lee, Jr. walked the two blocks up Carol Street to Columbus Boulevard deep in thought. He barely noticed the sweat starting to trickle down his neck into the collar of his freshly pressed shirt. The conversation with his father had caused him to wonder if he might be getting into something he didn’t fully understand. At Columbus, he turned left toward G.W. Carver High School, oblivious to friends waving from passing cars.

It was 1966. Mandatory school desegregation had come to Port Town, Texas like a deranged doctor—medicine in one hand, a gun in the other—determined to cure centuries of racism.

The Port Town Independent School District, faced with a cutoff of federal funds if their schools remained segregated, had hastily drawn up a plan that would allow every student to attend the school of their choice. Selection forms, passed out at every school on Monday, May 6^th, had to be signed by a parent or guardian and turned in by Friday, May 10^th. According to the plan, integrated classes would begin in the fall.

Over the years, by southern standards, the white leadership of Port Town had maintained good relations with the “nigra community.” Some said it was because the colored people worked hard and didn’t cause trouble. But the old timers said it was because colored folks in Texas had a long history of “shootin’ back!”

Whatever the reason, the Negroes of Port Town, unlike most blacks in the south, enjoyed a relatively high standard of living. Jobs in oil refineries, commercial fishing, and the shipping industry combined with decent schools, strong churches, and easy financing for homes and cars to create a stable, prosperous environment.

Except for the occasional case of police brutality, or the rare instance of a cross burning, the coloreds and whites in Port Town had always gotten along by ignoring each other as much as possible.

Now there were monumental changes stirring in the hot, sticky air. Rumors buzzed like mosquitoes, stinging a lot of ears: “The Klan was calling for a big rally in nearby Harper’s Bayou… Colored people who sent their kids to white schools would lose their jobs… Gun shops were selling out of guns and ammunition… The President was sending in the National Guard.”

Local, County, and State officials, fearing the disruption of business a race riot would cause, pleaded with everybody via newspapers, radio, and tv to help make the transition from the old to the new a smooth one. Law enforcement officials promised swift arrests and prosecutions for those who attempted to defy the law.

Until the announcement by the School Board the previous week, nobody believed the local schools would be desegregated anytime soon. The white people of southeast Texas, descendents of rebels who continued to battle the Union Army and Navy long after the rest of the Confederacy had surrendered, had been expected to fight Washington for years on the school issue.

But now it was Thursday, May 9^th and Adam Lee, Jr. had only one more day to make up his mind about transferring.

“Adam Lee, wait up!” Terrell Jones was attempting to cross Columbus in the middle of the block. Taking advantage of what looked like a break in traffic, the stocky Terrell bolted from between two parked cars, head down, clutching a book under his arm, stiff-arming imaginary tacklers.

“Terrell!” Adam Lee yelled. But it was too late to stop him.

The old white man hit the brakes hard, forcing his battered pickup to a screeching, tire-smoking stop!

Terrell made it across safely, leaped onto the curb next to his cousin, did a little dance, and held both arms up in the football signal for a touchdown.

“Crazy nigger!” the old man screamed as he roared off in the truck.

“Yo mama!” Terrell yelled back, shaking his fist in the air.

“You tryin’ to get killed?” Adam Lee’s dark brown face showed little trace of the panic his cousin’s antics had caused.

“I’m too fast for ‘em,” Terrell replied, taking longer strides to match the taller boy’s gait. “The white folks will get you way before they get me if you go to their school and start messin’ around with their daughters.”

“Look, if I do decide to go to Jeff Davis, it won’t be to chase white girls.” Adam Lee struggled to hide his frustration.

“Is your daddy gonna sign the papers?” Terrell asked.

Adam Lee hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I think he will if I can come up with a good enough reason to transfer.”

Terrell puffed up his chest. “My old man says he’d never send his kids somewhere they wasn’t welcome. He says most of the people who put their kids in the white schools are gonna be the ones who think they’re better than the rest of the colored folks.”

“Your dad’s entitled to his opinion. Just like everybody else that thinks we shouldn’t be allowed to take advantage of opportunities our parents helped create.”

Nothing he’d learned about the Civil Rights movement had prepared Adam Lee for black opposition to desegregation.

“What do you think, Terrell? You’re telling me what your daddy says, but what do you have to say about us gettin’ what we should have had a long time ago?”

“I just don’t understand why you would even think about leaving Carver and all the people we grew up with,” replied Terrell. “You’ve got it made over here! And I just can’t see why you’d give it all up to go and get mistreated by a bunch of red neck honkies. And besides that, I was lookin’ forward to us movin’ up to the varsity squad this season and kickin’ some more butt together.”

“But somebody’s got to go,” Adam Lee replied. “How else are we gonna keep the door open?”

Terrell was unimpressed. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Adam Lee continued, gaining momentum as he spoke. “Suppose none of us took ‘em up on the chance to get an equal education? The next thing you know, white folks are gonna be saying we’re scared to compete, or that we know our place, or that we’re satisfied with them spending twice as much on the white schools as they do on ours.”

“Who gives a damn what white folks think?” Terrell snapped. “I sure don’t! And how come you never showed no interest in all this civil rights stuff before Evon came to town?”

“That’s not true!” Adam Lee protested. “I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about the movement ever since President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act. The only reason I never talked to you about it is because I know you don’t care.

Terrell looked at the boy walking next to him curiously. “You better wake up, man,” he said. “That civil rights crap is a waste of time. My dad says ain’t none of them civil rights leaders got a refinery for us to work at, or a ship to work on. And goin’ to that white school ain’t gonna make you no better off than the rest of us, Adam Lee. You’ll never be President of the United States because, to the honkies, no matter how educated you get, you’ll always be just another nigger.”

“I don’t think you understand,” said Adam Lee.

“I guess I don’t,” Terrell shot back.

The two boys walked the rest of the way to school in silence, each feeling a sudden strain on a relationship that had kept them close for as long as either of them could remember.

As they crossed onto the crowded campus of G.W. Carver High, the Temptations crooned “My Girl” through the speakers of several little transistor radios, all tuned to KJET, the only colored station in the county.

Adam Lee spotted Evon getting out of her father’s new Buick and started over to meet her. “Catch you later,” he mumbled to Terrell.

“Yeah, right,” Terrell responded, turning toward the big oak tree where the jocks hung out.

Evon Johnson was the first girl Adam Lee had ever seen in person with an Afro hairstyle. Her family had recently relocated from Houston when her father became the first Negro assistant manager at TexiCal’s Port Town oil refinery. The baby sister of two activist brothers attending Texas Southern University, she insisted on being referred to as Afro-American or Black instead of colored or Negro.

“What’s the matter?” Adam Lee could tell something wasn’t right with his girl.

Evon sighed as her shoulders slumped. “It looks like I won’t be transferring to Jeff Davis,” she said.

“Why not?” Adam Lee couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Evon avoided his eyes. “My parents are scared,” she confessed. “I know they said I could go if I wanted to, but now my father says he’s worried about what might happen to the kids that go to the white schools.

Adam Lee had expected more backbone from a man like Charles Johnson. “Do you think they pressured him at work?”

“No, I think he’s just really nervous about what might happen,” Evon replied. “I heard him talking to my mom about what he’d seen the Klan do to Black people when he was a boy in Alabama, and he said he just didn’t want me to be a part of the first group going to a white school.

Adam Lee was extremely disappointed. Being the new girl’s boyfriend had continued to prove costly. Her radical statements about the plight of Black people, while fascinating to Adam Lee, had alienated her from most of Carver’s complacent students. And ever since he’d broken up with the ever popular Carmen, his girlfriend since 7^th grade, to be with Evon, a lot of his friends said Evon must have worked a mojo on him. Then he’d suffered a black eye in a fight with an older boy who called Evon a brillo head bitch.

Now he figured he’d look like a fool if he backed out of the transfer just because she couldn’t go.

“You’re not still going, are you?” Evon searched Adam Lee’s eyes for clues.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied, looking away.

The loud school bell saved him from having to come up with a more definitive answer.

The school day seemed to last forever. Each class got progressively hotter and muggier as the temperature soared into the high nineties.

And by the last bell, Adam Lee had spoken with several students who, like Evon, said they’d changed their minds about transferring to Jeff Davis High. Fear, he guessed, was the common denominator—fear of being labeled a traitor by their own people, and/or the fear of becoming a victim of white violence.

With football practice cancelled due to the heat, Adam Lee caught a city bus and headed for the main library downtown to see if he could find a book he needed for his final biology paper of the semester.

The recently integrated main library was impressive, more like a cathedral than a library, and at least ten times the size of the colored library.

Finding the aisle he needed, Adam Lee browsed the massive bookshelves until his search was interrupted by a hushed-tone conversation between two men on the next aisle. The topic of discussion was the school integration plan.

Adam Lee held his breath, listening intently.

“It’s the best thing that could’ve happened, if you ask me,” one of the men drawled.

“What’re ya sayin’, Bob?” the other man asked. “You think it’s a good idea to let the niggers in our schools?

“Hell yeah!” replied the first man. “It’ll give us the chance to show the whole world, once and for all, that these poor little nigger children just cain’t keep up with our kids! And besides bein’ lazy and just plain dim-witted, they’ve been usin’ our outdated books ever since we opened their first school.”

“And what does any of that mean?” asked the second man, seeming a little confused.

“Hell, ain’t you got a brain, Jimmy Joe?” the first man chuckled. “They’ll last about as long as a fart in a hurricane. And their mammies will be so ashamed over the way they’re failin’, they’ll pull the little monkeys back to the nigger schools so fast, it’ll make your head spin!”

Both men erupted with uncontrollable laughter, punctuated by hacking coughs.

“Maybe you’re right, Bob,” the second man sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”

Stung by their words, Adam Lee straightened up to his full height and walked around to the aisle where the men were standing.

The sudden appearance of the six foot Negro at the end of the aisle, brilliantly backlit by sunlight beaming through a large window, startled the men into silence.

The fragile, gray-haired librarian, coming over to shush the good ole boys shuffled up behind the men, stopping short when she too became transfixed by the glowing image at the other end of the aisle.

“Is there a problem here?” she asked, her watery blue eyes darting nervously from the men to the boy.

As soon as Adam Lee took a step toward them, all three abandoned the aisle. Without saying a word, the angry young man stormed passed other library customers and out of the building.

But something wouldn’t let him leave. He paced in front of the main entrance, hoping the scrawny little men would come out. Incensed, their wheezing laughter still ringing in his ears, he wanted to smash their faces with his fists, rub their noses in the dirt…

Suddenly, a black and white patrol car raced around the corner and slid to a stop right in front of Adam Lee!

“That’s him right there!” The librarian, backed up by the two men and several other library patrons, stood in the doorway of the main entrance brandishing a baseball bat.

The big burly cop kept his eyes on the menacing Negro as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. “You got a problem, boy?” he asked, slapping a huge nightstick into the palm of his beefy hand.

The advancing policeman brought Adam Lee to his senses, triggering survival instincts he’d inherited along with his skin color.

“I… uh… I was just upset with myself, officer… for forgettin’ the name of the book my teacher told me to get,” he stammered, faking a smile.

“You sure that’s all it is?” The cop moved into striking range. “These folks said you was actin’ kind of funny around here.”

“Yassuh, that’s all it is,” replied Adam Lee. “Sometime I get so mad at myself when I forget somethin’ I bump my head against the wall trying to remember.”

“Yeah, well it’s gettin’ kinda late for you to be on this side of town,” the sweaty officer growled, eyeing Adam Lee warily. “I think you’d better start headin’ on home.”

“Yassuh,” Adam Lee replied. “I think you right. I best be headin’ for the other side of the tracks.”

Just as Adam Lee turned and started walking toward the Westside, the cop’s command stopped him.

“Not so fast!” the cop barked. Again he walked to within a few feet of the boy. “I want to get a good look at you, because if I see you up here actin’ a fool again, I’m gonna haul your black ass off to jail. You got that?”

“Yassuh… yassuh,” the nervous boy blurted.

Adam Lee almost ran the entire three miles to Evon’s house. His anger had returned and with it a deep sense of shame over the way he’d resorted to acting like an Uncle Tom to avoid a beating.

As he rang the doorbell, he wondered what he might have done if the cop hadn’t shown up.

“Hi Adam Lee.” Evon came out onto the porch. “My parents aren’t home yet so I can’t invite you in.”

“That’s okay,” he said sternly. “I just came by to tell you I’ve made up my mind. If my dad signs the transfer, I’m gonna go to Jeff Davis in the fall.”

Evon was shocked. “You mean you’d leave me at Carver by myself, knowing that just about everybody there hates me? How could you do that?”

“It’s something I’ve got to do, Evon. I’m sorry, but it’s something I’ve just got to do.

Adam Lee told Evon about his encounter with the men at the library. He told her he was determined to prove them wrong by maintaining his honor roll status at the white school, no matter how hard it might get.

By the time Adam Lee finished talking, Evon realized that he was totally committed to his mission.

“I just wish you’d wait until next year,” she said. “It could be dangerous.”

“I can’t wait another year,” he replied. “If my father signs the paperwork, I’ll be at Jeff Davis in September, even if I have to go there alone.”

That evening at the dinner table it was apparent to Big Adam and Mary Jones that their son’s appetite had definitely returned to normal. They looked on in wonder as he started on his second helping of smothered steak, collard greens, red beans and rice, and yams.

Mary, having come home early from the cleaners to cook supper, was happy to see her boy acting like his old self again.

Adam Lee, Sr. watched his son make short work of the pile of food, remembering a time back when he too could eat as much as he wanted without gaining a pound.

“You better not get too fat and out of shape, Junior,” he said. “There’s probably gonna be a lot of white boys at that school that want to see what you’re made of.”

Adam Lee looked up from his plate. “Does that mean I can go?”

“Is it what you really want to do, son?” Big Adam’s tone was serious.

“It’s something I’ve got to do, dad. You’ve always taught me that white folks are no better than we are. But I don’t want to go through life not knowing for sure. And the only way I’ll ever find out is if I get the chance to compete with them up close, on an equal level.”

Knowing how close he’d come to going to jail that day, Adam Lee, Jr. never mentioned the incident at the library.

Mary Jones sat down and looked her son in the eye. “Are you trying to prove something to yourself, Junior, or someone else?”

“Both, mom,” the boy replied. “Because when I prove what I’m capable of achieving to myself, it’ll help other black people to see that if I can do it, they can too, and that we are just as good as anybody else when we do our best.

“Then it’s settled,” announced Big Adam. Your mother and I will stand behind you one hundred per cent.

Later that evening father and son sat on the front porch, cooling off with tall glasses of ice cold lemonade. The night air was still warm and humid.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for some of the crazy things I said this morning, son.” Adam Lee, Sr. paused before continuing. “I guess the fear of something happenin’ to you at that school had me lookin’ for any excuse to keep you from goin’. Sometimes change is hard to accept, but we can’t move forward if we’re always lookin’ backwards. So if you want to play sports at Jeff Davis, I’ll root for you and your team at every game.”

“Thanks, dad,” said Adam Lee, Jr. “That means a lot to me. Maybe I’ll play the second year. I want to put all my energy into studying the first year.”

Mary Jones came out onto the porch with refills of her sweeter than honey, homemade lemonade. “Your father went to see Sheriff Clark today to make sure the police are going to provide adequate protection for the colored kids. Mr. Johnson, the new manager at Texical, was there for the same reason. He said he’s decided to let his daughter transfer too.”

“Alright!” shouted Adam Lee, Jr. He set down his lemonade and raced to the phone.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones smiled. They were not surprised by their son’s reaction.

Most of the Black community eventually came to recognize the significance of school integration and rallied to support the students that would represent them in the desegregated classrooms.

Congregations prayed for the children’s safety, car pools were organized, and school supplies were donated to needy students. And the white people of Port Town proved themselves again to be different from their southern brethren. Aside from a few arrests for failure to disperse during the first week of classes, and some isolated incidents of name calling, most of them characterized school desegregation as “no big deal.”

The children, with the exception of a handful of fistfights, turned out to be more curious about each other than hostile.

Both Adam Lee Jones, Jr. and Evon Johnson graduated from Jefferson Davis High School with honors in 1968. Neither participated in inter-scholastic sports.

©2010 Paul Howard Nicholas