Tag: racism

Crabs in a Big Brown Bucket

Meet Rafa. He has lived with all of his life until last night.

We are in Costa Rica wondering exactly what happened. But really we know. It’s gonna take a while to process.

Rafa’s Dad came to live with us over twenty years ago. He was living in a man camp. And kept getting fired from all of his jobs. I met him when a man building my fence asked to hire him. When I saw how Nestor held a hammer I knew why he got fired all of the time. I took the hammer from his hand. ‘It’s OK.”

He came to live with us. He got married. He had two children. We lived here like a family. Many things have occurred. We have been through a lot together.

Rafa graduated high school and wanted to go to college. I believe Rafa is an exceptional person with a high I Q.

His parents refuse to let him attend the University. We offered to pay for his tuition. He is now working as a laborer. He is now a laborer who belongs in academia. He wants to be in academia. I didn’t make this up for him.

His parents have moved to a Nicaraguan “hood”.

There is much racism here in Costa Rica. The general consensus is Nicas are not smart. Drunks. The women are loose. And they will never get anywhere. I have experienced a lot of racism dumped on this kid. And now I have seen it dumped on him by his own parents.

Unbelievable. They sincerely believe he needs to stay out of school. No education for Rafa.

Continue reading Crabs in a Big Brown Bucket

Black Bottom 3

Once upon a time. I took a friend to the swamp bank. It was green with algae. Ugly. Not like it use to be. 

I invited a cousin. Beloved. 

We shared what we could. We answered questions. We wanted him (my new friend)  to get familiar with the past. The old days of Whitehouse/Westide. It’s fringe. It’s fun and it’s dark. It’s Southern Gothic. 

A lot was told. The Goat ( I call him that because of the stable life he has created for himself, his wife and his four daughters. He has grandchildren. He is a well known figure in the Westside community. Respected. ) made a statement about John Hysler giving the word to kill black men that were kidnapped and forced to work whiskey stills. 

The writer ran with it. He mistakenly touted stills on Old Gainseville Rd. He made up a neighborhood where the men were kidnapped from. It seems to me like these are important facts. In a story where much is left to the imagination, I cling to the known. In my opinion he made many errors. It was disappointing to me. He had no interest in us. As a matter of fact he was demeaning. As he is with most all Whitehouse/Westside people. And yet, I still call him friend.

Continue reading Black Bottom 3

Black Bottom

Out in the swamp, in Baldwin, Florida, under the earth, by a body of water, lay the bones of black men. Stolen from the streets of Jacksonville. Killed by vicious, backwoods moonshiners. Men who believed black people were like animals. Convinced they were animals. Put on this earth to be supportive of them. To provide a service; be it barking to protect, pulling a plow, or a source of transportation.

If they were of no use any longer. You kill ’em.

Now some people think killin means shootin. Not thinking, that if you want to kill a man, at an illegal whiskey operation, you don’t want to create an explosive sound. One that would draw attention to your egregious deed. You can slit their throat. Shove their face in the convenient mud. Suffocating their life’s energy. Laugh at their struggle. Why deprive yourself of the entertainment?

You could drown them in the creek and feed them to the gators. Save the time of diggin a grave. And you know those white, backwoods moonshiners didn’t do any digging. It would be a good guess those demoralized, threatened, tortured, helpless men, dug their own graves. Their flesh and bones long ago decayed. Now consumed by the swamp ooze that abounds in Florida.

Stagnant – missing – lost.

But all of this is an educated guess. We don’t know exactly who or how all of this happened. Pure evil murder.

But be sure it happened.

I am a Cracker by Birth – A Redneck by Default and a Peace Activist through reading, writing and education.

Hello, Old Friend

It’s 3:30 in the morning and the rain has woke me. I can’t help, but hear it’s relentlessness, on my tin roof. The sound of the rain brings joy to my heart. It promotes contemplation. It heals me. It washes the earth.

When I was young, on a Saturday afternoon, in the middle of this neighborhood, looking to score, at the local tavern, The Island Bar, I found myself surrounded by police cars, I was shocked to be white. It was so obvious. They were there to break up a fight, I was really wishing I was a different color. They looked at me, cutting their eyes, saying, “what the hell are you doing here?”

Continue reading Hello, Old Friend

Friends and Overgrown Children Who Don’t Know How to be Civil

I was in her apartment. It was a two bedroom, one bath, concrete hovel. It was navy housing. The war was going on and I loved to smoke pot and listen to Cat Stevens. I was in the company, of a stranger, strange neighbor.

She shared with me that her parents were in the KKK. She had been so proud, of her father in his robes. Attending rallies was the family pastime. She told me about the philosophies, of the KKK. They wanted to keep the white race white.

She boasted that her boyfriend, in 1964 was the National Leader of the KKK. She attended St. Augustine Rallies. She claimed they fed a black man, to the hogs. She laughed.

I was silent. I loved Cat Stevens. I was twelve.

I went to visit a relative, who worked in the Georgia education system. She was so proud of her job. She told me how stupid the black students were. The faculty just had to deal with them, but it was so difficult and a waste a time. My backbone straightened and I came down upon her with an intellectual vengeance. I showed her who was stupid.

I walked out, went home and rarely ever visited again. I was 36..

I had a friend that I admired. She was an artist and a middle school teacher. I went to her class, to see the students work. She let me know, which work was created by black children. She said they had zero creativity.

I could no longer be her friend. I was 40

I was close to an older woman, who told me her Daddy owned nigger town. She made the claim, that black people could only go so far in education. They couldn’t cut it. They would quit and give up. And she abhorred Venus Williams. She believed that Venus had destroyed women’s tennis. She was a highly respected and affluent member, of the Jacksonville community.

I stayed by her side, until her death. I was continually shocked at her class consciousness and racism. I am in my sixties.

I still like Cat Stevens

Racism, friends and family, and overgrown children who don’t know how to be civil.

Yes, for God’s sake, don’t ever speak up. Don’t loose it. Hold it inside. Sing a song. Look the other way. Take it on the chin. Pull yourselves up by the bootstraps. Dodge the bullet. Don’t throw water on the burning cross, that would be too uncivil.

Am I Civil – sometimes.

Am I Confused – hell no!