In this time of racial unrest, one might wish to believe that systemic racism does not permeate our society and yet it does.
My first, early experience with racism happened when I was a kid attending Franklin Junior High School in Pocatello, Idaho. It was the 1960s. At that time, Pocatello was the second largest city in the state. It was located at the crossroads of two railway lines, the most significant of which was the Union Pacific that brought passengers cross country from places like New York and Chicago.
Because of its railway status and the employment of many Black Americans in the railroad industry, Pocatello had a much larger Black population than any other city in what was otherwise lily-white Idaho.
I became friends with Alfred, who was Black. We both enjoyed playing in the middle school band (he played several instruments, including flute and drums, and I played saxophone) and shooting hoops after school.
I invited Alfred to my house numerous times for lunch and dinner and was always puzzled by his reluctance to let me visit his home. I persisted and was shocked to see his living conditions. The house was a shack and the floor was cardboard probably over dirt. But his family was warm and welcoming and there was always something cooking that smelled wonderful and tasted really good.
One afternoon, I invited Alfred to come over after school and play basketball. A neighborhood friend of mine had a basketball hoop set up over the entrance to a large garage. It was great for three-on-three games. I brought my favorite ball.
We were well into a spirited game when my friend’s father walked over to us and motioned his son to come talk with him. None of us could hear what he was saying but after he left, my friend (I’ll call him Jim) came over to Alfred and me.
“My dad says Alfred has to go,” he said.
I listened in disbelief and asked him to repeat himself. He acted embarrassed and flustered but repeated the same words.
Alfred, to his credit, motioned to me that we should leave. I gave Jim one long stare and said, “Get your own ball.”
On our way back to my house, I didn’t know what to say to Alfred. I was ashamed, embarrassed and angry, and couldn’t express my real feelings to my friend.
When Alfred left, my mom asked me why we were back so early. I told her what happened and said I wanted to talk with both her and Dad when he got home from work.
We had a long talk that evening and what I remember to this day was my parent’s empathy and understanding, and both of them trying to explain to me why “some people” harbor these kind of feelings.
Well, it’s more than “some people.” It’s a pervasive, long and tortuous history against people of color in this country, and the sooner we recognize and acknowledge the problem and do something about it, the sooner we can start the healing process. And what better time to start than in the midst of a pandemic that threatens all Americans, regardless of race?
My friend, Alfred Vann Jr., became a renowned jazz flutist who lived in Seattle for many years. He passed away in 2015.
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