Prejudice

One time in grade school, I had to wear black makeup to perform in a play. I suppose I was chosen because I had naturally black hair and could play the part much easier than the other little girl in my grade who’s beautiful blond curls were quite obvious. Our little 2-room schoolhouse did not have a “performing arts” department, let alone a black wig, so they took advantage of who and what was available. I don’t remember the lines I had to memorize, only that I wore a red & white tiny checked dress, and set on the stage on a hay bale, in my black makeup and recited the lines. I remember thinking, even with all the black goop spread on my face, I am still just me, and I my biggest concern was that I didn’t forget my lines when it came time for me to speak.

A few years later, our 4-H leader stopped by one day to talk to my Mom about something, and she had a little black girl about my age with her. The little girl was from a neighboring town, having just moved there and would be joining our 4-H group. She was the first black person I had ever been around. I might have been 6 or 7 at the time. She and I went into the cornfield across the road and played hide and seek in the rows until I cut my finger on a corn stock and had to go home for a bandage. When I asked my Mom later why they called them people “niggers”, she said well I believe it’s because they come from Nigeria and that is just a shortened term that some use. Fine! Question answered, question accepted…. I went outside to play some more.

We had a sign on the highway leading into the city limits that stated our town observed the “sunset” law, and it went on to say that no niggers were allowed within the city limits after sundown. This was actually printed on a sign! Except we did have one black man who lived on the south edge of town, his name was Herchel and some called him Blackie. He lived in an old oil field tank and sold junk. When Blackie went to the café to eat, he was always served in back. Everyone knew Blackie, but for the most part he was left alone, unless someone wanted to buy something he had. That was extent of my introduction to a different race. This would have been in the late 1940’s.

After I was married, I returned to our little Country Church in about 1963 to attend the services with my Mother one Sunday. She would have been in her early 50’s at that time. On that particular day a guest minister was at our Church and he was a black man. I remember enjoying the sermon, and when it was over he walked outside to stand and greet each of the parishioners as they left. I was standing beside my Mother when he stuck his hand out for her to shake it…she hesitated for just a moment, then clasped his hand in hers. She said…”You are the first black person I have ever touched”. He smiled widely and said ……”I am so honored”. Then, she leaned forward put her arm around his shoulder. He in turn patted her on the back and we left.

As I learned later, there was so much more to learn about people of different color’s and races than what we see on the outside. I still have a hard time understanding the horrendous treatment we put the black race through… Slavery was one thing, but beyond that? Only a short period of time ago we wouldn’t let a particular person live in a town? We wouldn’t let one eat out front in the café? Today there are those who will still not recognize their individuality, their talents, their intelligence, their contributions to society, and their love… I do not understand.

I experienced prejudice myself, being raised as “oil field trash” in the small farming community in which we lived. Oil field supply stores were not allowed to build within the city limits…. As the oil field boom hit our town and many workers moved there to drill and operate the wells, they built “camps” around the town to provide housing for the families. A small town of less than maybe 1,000 people with dirt streets refused to let the outside world in. It was a number of years before my parents, and other members of the oil field community were allowed to write checks at the grocery store. The “oil field trash” label preceded them and it took many years before they were given any trust. We lived in a camp during my first year of life, then moved to the hill when I was 2 years old.

I started school when I was 4 years old, a country school where all of the farm kids went. The first week of school, a little farm girl who lived about 5 miles from us, said to me at recess, “my Dad says you’re just oil field trash and I’m not supposed to play with you. Needless to say, it made me very mad so I hit her. We were fighting on the ground when the teacher came out to break it up. I had to take a note home saying that I had gotten in trouble, and then I had to tell my folks about it and I had torn my dress. When Daddy got home, Mom told him about it. He took me by the hand and said come outside with me. He led me around the yard and said I want you to see how many things we have here that uses oil or runs on gas. He took me to the garage and showed me the car and his work pickup, he took me in the wash house and showed me the washing machine, he showed me tools, the water well, and he pointed to the farmer’s tractor and said “how long do you think he could plow his fields without oil”. We went back in the house and he pointed out Mom’s sewing machine, our gas fridge, the old heating stove, and it went on and on. Then, Mommy made me set down at the table and make out a list and told me that I had to take it to school the next day. She called the teacher that night and requested that I be given time to give a speech and ask if that could be my punishment for fighting. I barely remember standing in front of the class and telling them what my Daddy had taught me and all of the things that use oil. This was how my parents handled prejudice. There is so much more to this story… And so much more than what we see on the outside of anything, or anyone…