Thanks as always. My high school football coach was a pious Baptist deacon, member of my church. He forbade cussing by his assistant coaches or members of the team. Instead, when our poor play rankled him, he would shout "JOHN BROWN, boy! Get your head on straight." It wasn't until decades later than I realized it was a racially-tinged statement.
Wow. I've been thinking while listening to the podcast about the little ways that story gets remembered, like your example.
It would be interesting to think further about how it lives in the collective American psyche (or maybe the collective white American psyche), if there is such a thing. The story still haunts, and for reasons a lot of us probably can't express well.
Yeah, I'm aware of a number of experiences where my racial (mal)formation occurred--and there are very likely many others I don't recall. At the same time, I remember in one particular instance when, somehow, I managed to transcend that deformity. All HS seniors in Louisiana took an American history course. The last six weeks of the course was devoted to reading/studying J Edgar Hoover's "Masters of Deceit" anti-communist screed. And, by law, if you failed that last 6 week period, you couldn't graduate. (God's honest truth.) I found out the last few days of the spring semester that one of my good friends, Jesse, an African American (we were teammates on the track team) failed--and was devastated, in the midst of an emotional meltdown. I decided to go talk to our history teacher and begged him to allow Jesse to take the exam again. At first the teacher was very defensive. But I managed to keep pleading until he relented. Jesse ended up passing the test, barely. It wasn't that I felt especially virtuous, or a dispenser of patronage, or thought about how Jesse could repay the favor. I don't even remember if Jesse and I spoke again, though I'm sure we must have. It was more like an experience of awe/wonder; that human affairs were pliable and not fated; that an important difference could be made, and that I could participate in this transforming possibility. It may have been the first time that I felt enveloped in joy--not pride for my accomplishment, or happiness that the teacher generously relented (he was probably taking a career risk). In some small, very incremental way, history turned out right. And I was, despite all my limitations, was a participant. That experience has stayed with me all these years and has been a source of buoyancy when my most strenuous efforts to effect the justice that leads to peace (mediated by mercy) have come to naught. Or when i suddenly realize that parts of me remain unrepentant, despite my conscientious attempts at repentance. I remember Jesse and my history teacher and my small attempt to nudge history's outcome, and realize there's hope for me, as well.
Thanks as always. My high school football coach was a pious Baptist deacon, member of my church. He forbade cussing by his assistant coaches or members of the team. Instead, when our poor play rankled him, he would shout "JOHN BROWN, boy! Get your head on straight." It wasn't until decades later than I realized it was a racially-tinged statement.
Wow. I've been thinking while listening to the podcast about the little ways that story gets remembered, like your example.
It would be interesting to think further about how it lives in the collective American psyche (or maybe the collective white American psyche), if there is such a thing. The story still haunts, and for reasons a lot of us probably can't express well.
Yeah, I'm aware of a number of experiences where my racial (mal)formation occurred--and there are very likely many others I don't recall. At the same time, I remember in one particular instance when, somehow, I managed to transcend that deformity. All HS seniors in Louisiana took an American history course. The last six weeks of the course was devoted to reading/studying J Edgar Hoover's "Masters of Deceit" anti-communist screed. And, by law, if you failed that last 6 week period, you couldn't graduate. (God's honest truth.) I found out the last few days of the spring semester that one of my good friends, Jesse, an African American (we were teammates on the track team) failed--and was devastated, in the midst of an emotional meltdown. I decided to go talk to our history teacher and begged him to allow Jesse to take the exam again. At first the teacher was very defensive. But I managed to keep pleading until he relented. Jesse ended up passing the test, barely. It wasn't that I felt especially virtuous, or a dispenser of patronage, or thought about how Jesse could repay the favor. I don't even remember if Jesse and I spoke again, though I'm sure we must have. It was more like an experience of awe/wonder; that human affairs were pliable and not fated; that an important difference could be made, and that I could participate in this transforming possibility. It may have been the first time that I felt enveloped in joy--not pride for my accomplishment, or happiness that the teacher generously relented (he was probably taking a career risk). In some small, very incremental way, history turned out right. And I was, despite all my limitations, was a participant. That experience has stayed with me all these years and has been a source of buoyancy when my most strenuous efforts to effect the justice that leads to peace (mediated by mercy) have come to naught. Or when i suddenly realize that parts of me remain unrepentant, despite my conscientious attempts at repentance. I remember Jesse and my history teacher and my small attempt to nudge history's outcome, and realize there's hope for me, as well.