This was a slightly different post I added over at www.letjusticeroll.blogspot.com back a few months ago. It describes a conversation I had with one of my grandsons and then a situation that happened to me back in my adolescence.
I had a conversation with one of my grandsons after breakfast today. That is not unusual except for two things. One, he lives across the street, so we rarely have breakfast together. Second, we talked about a book I was reading by James Cone, The Cross and the Lynching Tree. I was not much older than him when the story I tell below happened. It was one of those times in which the cross and the lynching tree collided, not literally but symbolically and historically. The fact that my friends had to sit apart was an artifact of those horrific times. I was more naïve then. He is more informed now. He cares deeply about these sorts of things.
For several years, I have been noting on Sunday mornings exactly where members of my family sit in church. I sketch out the pews on a piece of paper and note who sits where. Sometimes we sit on two rows. Sometimes we take up almost the entire length of one row. One of my grandsons asked why I did that. My response to him was that I just wanted to remember. These days we sit with different family members as our church residence has changed. I remember those days and times by simply looking at the dates and who sat where. An odd ritual for sure.
Sometimes the grandsons sit between their mema and me. Sometimes they sit to the left and to the right of us. One Sunday it will be one grandson to the left or the right and on another Sunday, it will be another grandson. Always the same people, but we often sit in different locations. There seems to be no rhyme or reason, just the will of folks at the moment.
I remember from days gone by a rather curious and demeaning decision about where people were to sit. It made an impression on me, or in some ways it may have scarred me or spurred me on.
The small town church I attended was having a "gospel meeting." The meeting started on a Sunday and ended on a Wednesday night. In my zeal to invite people to attend the gospel meeting, I invited members of the black church of Christ in town to attend. I was in my mid-teen years and worked at a grocery store, probably the point of contact with African American brothers and sisters. So, on a given evening, five or six of our brothers and sisters showed up for church. It caused quite a stir. We greeted them, shook hands, and nervously invited them in to sit. I was actually glad to see them. Others were noticeably distressed.
At first, my black brothers and sisters sat on the very back row in the small church building on the right side of the auditorium. Then, with a burst of energy, some of the men of the church went into the back classroom and brought out two old pews from days gone by. These pews were placed to the front and left of the pulpit from which the preacher would be preaching. There the pews were placed and there our African American brothers and sisters were invited, or rather told, to sit.
It was an embarrassing occasion. It was the mid-60s. Brothers and sisters in Christ were troubled by the social rules of the day. Lost are lost. Black is black. White is white. Invite, maybe. Sit together, no.
This act of segregation and separation actually caused more of a distinction than would have happened if they had been allowed to sit on the back row.
I felt guilty about that then and I bear some of the scars now. Through my naive and well intentioned actions, some of my people embarrassed some of my people. Some of my people were embarrassed by my people. What was perhaps usual and customary for them at the time was new and novel for me. That scene is still emblazoned in my memory.
I was not a political man, or even a political kid. I just was on fire for God. Just trying to do right in the world.
Those were the times.
I was just a kid.
On those days when I note who sits where in church, I remember.
Posted here by permission of Russell Moody. It is a riveting story. I think more of us have them.
ReplyDeleteI grew up with a grandfather that told me that Negros did not have souls. I was from the North. He was from the South. I lived in Massachusetts from the time I was 7 until those years that I was old enough to speak out and big enough to back up my words. My 'Papaw' was not a nice man, a man I had visited only a half dozen times until I was eighteen. Papaw had lived in Southern Texas for all of his life. He had many ideas about things of which I did not... no, could not believe or tolerate.
One of my saddest memories is of my Papaw and me squaring off in the driveway to his home. He was going to teach me a lesson and I was going to knock him to the ground. I can't remember exactly what we were arguing about, but I know it was because I spoke my mind in opposition to him and his bigoted words. My poor mother and Mamaw were the only thing that kept us from each other. I am so grateful now that we did not come to blows then. I am saddened at the thought. I am saddened at the memory.
Thanks, Russell, for your deeply personal story. As I said above, I think more of us have stories. There is healing in the telling..
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