Growing up in Birmingham, Alabama in the 1960’s, I thought my first name was Black and my last name was Boy. And every time these words were spoken it was like a verbal shank to my soul, making me believe, the color of my skin made me less than human. You probably think I am pumping up the drama volume, but slip into my skin for a New York minute and learn how life as a nigger changes everything.
I was fifteen years old, when Bull Connor’s violent suppression of a peaceful protest, against Jim Crow Laws, exploded onto TVs across the country and shattered my world. On the one hand, I was not surprised because I experienced the degradation of segregation every day of my life, but somewhere deep in my heart, I still believed in the American Dream of equality I learned about in Mr. Jackson’s halfway interesting social studies class. The evil images of police officers armed with German Shepherds and water cannons attacking men, women, and children (who had the nerve to want to drink from the same water fountain as white people) transformed my American Dream into a petrified pillar. This cruel, ancient myth tortured black people by dangling the hope of freedom on paper and then shredding the sacred idea by allowing the wild dogs of racism to rule.
Hate found a home in me and provided an unbelievable power supply I intended to use against Mr. Jackson’s propaganda program and anyone else who talked about freedom in America. Turns out, my older brother was right for once in his life. He has always said that we need a great African warrior to lead the Black people in a military struggle that would eventually lead to secession of a portion of the United States, where black nationalists could create a country. Now I believed him and hated Mr. Jackson.
I had to be careful with Mr. Jackson because he was also my baseball coach. In fact, our athletic relationship complicated the situation. He constantly talked about how his hero, Jackie Robinson, destroyed racial roadblocks the moment he stepped on the field as a Brooklyn Dodger and proved his superior ability through outstanding performances game after and season to season. In other words, a black man was judged by what he did and not on how he looked. The simple seduction of this belief is that I never thought someone could disagree with it. I was never so wrong.
My father was not any help either, being a sergeant in the United States Army. My brother says he’s completely brainwashed by the military industrial complex, whatever that means. All I knew he was not going to be the African chief to lead us to victory and the 50 acres and a mule we were promised when slavery supposedly ended a hundred years ago. And to pour salt in the wound, Coach Jackson and my Dad were friends who actually liked to discuss and debate US History, which I thought was complete waste of time.
If I had a dollar for every time I heard them talk about that worthless piece of paper, I would be a millionaire. The ultimate irony was my father actually pledged his life to defend the Constitution and all its glowing language of human rights, all the while offering him none of those important protections. The worst part was my father didn’t think things were that bad, since President Truman desegregated the armed forces and he finally started to get a couple of promotions. In my eyes, he failed because he was a coward afraid to stand up with the black nationalists and fight for our freedom.
I could not wait for school on Monday to call Mr. Jackson out in front of my black brothers and sisters. I laid in bed practicing my opening salvos until adrenaline lit my system up, making sleep completely impossible. “Liar!,” played over and over in my mind, the same way my mother listened to Aretha Franklin’s smash hit, R-E-S-P-E-C-T. I did not want just respect; I craved revenge.
The Monday morning bell felt like the beginning of a heavy weight championship fight, starring me as the unknown wunderkind. I let the audience take their seats and I confidently strutted my stuff, taking my throne. I raised my fist into the air, and Mr. Jackson called on me. I began my verbal assault.
“Mr. Jackson why didn’t you tell us you’re an Oreo?”, as I set him up for the knockout punch.
“I don’t understand the question, Reggie,” Jackson responded.
“You know. Black on the outside, but white on the inside,” throwing a verbal body shot, causing the class to erupt into laughter. They knew he was not a real black brother, because he went to the Ivy League on scholarship with all the white boys from the northeast. He must have told us that story about a billion times
“I still don’t know what you mean?” he asked, like the naïve nerd he was.
“Of course, you don’t know what I mean because you’re not really black. You’re an educated Uncle Tom,” I blurted and prepared for his counter offensive.
“I get it now. So tell me, Reggie, what is the color of education?” he placidly asked.
I cannot stand when he turns my statements and questions into some philosophical puzzle that seemed to connect to life in deep and mysterious ways. Moreover, worst of all he never answered the questions of life for us, because he said that would be too easy. Once again, Mr. Jackson designed the type of question that made me realize how stupid I sound when I say things, without thinking about what the words mean. Did I really believe that only white people should be educated and if a black person got a degree, he was no longer black? OK, one for Jackson, but I still had my secret weapon: militant black nationalism.
“Education has no color, so I’ll give you that. But, this Constitution crap does not do a thing for Black people. Look on the TV; the cops were the ones terrorizing the protestors. My brother says peaceful protests are for cowards afraid to fight, but real warriors defend their community like all soldiers, with guns,” I declared like General Patton with a royal tan.
“Reggie I know what happened in downtown Birmingham was a major tragedy and we can talk about it more lately. Let me ask you this: what kind of laws would you make in your new Black nation?” adding another piece to his never-ending puzzle. “Well the first thing I would do is I would use the same laws the whites use on us but spin them around on them. So I would basically outlaw white people,” I confidently declared.
“The funny thing about history is, if you don’t study it, you’re doomed to repeat it. Your answer is typical of most conquerors; you become what you hate and seek revenge rather than justice for all. When President Lincoln finally led us to victory in the civil war, his advisors wanted to continue the destruction of the south, but he replied “Don’t I destroy an enemy, when I make a friend.” Now I know there are huge racial problems, but we have Dr. King and he has a dream that one day all of America’s children will be able to sit together at the table of brotherhood and equality,” he stated in textbook teacher talk and actually seemed to believe what he said.
It was as if his talk hit me like a stun gun. I was ready to become a black version of the KKK, just like the cops on TV. I knew that revenge was not the answer, but how in the world were we going to get the white people to become our friends, when they would not even let us use the same water fountain of life? Reality overload numbed me to the core and I staggered home in a posttraumatic coma.
When I regained consciousness, I died and moved to heaven, when my father announced he was transferred to Southern California in LA County, (Dad got a promotion to Master Sergeant). The funny thing was that my dad actually believed his transfer would have a negative effect on my psyche, but I think he understood my feelings, when he saw me begin to pack before he finished his sentence. I could not wait to get out of this de facto slavery.
We moved to Inglewood, Ca., which I thought had to be right next to the multimillion dollar movie industry in Hollywood, but I was wrong. My career as an actor was over before it even started, but my journey as a baseball player began to take shape. The first time I played baseball in this sacred space was the first time I felt equal, and sometimes superior, to other Americans. The scoreboard did not care what color I was so I stopped focusing on it and started to keep my eye on the prize. Oh yeah I’m so used to it, that I almost forgot to tell you that LA County has people from all over the world and my street has Blacks, Mexicans, Samoans, Asian, and, are you ready , even White people. We even use the same public toilets, which blew my mind when we first got here.
Before you get the wrong idea, the place is not perfect. All of these ethnic groups together, mixed with at least three dominant foreign languages, are a recipe for a Molotov cocktail on more than one occasion. However, it sure beat the heck out of Birmingham. In fact, my best friend was Joey Romano, an Italian kid with a retarded brother, who I defended from a bunch jerks spitting on him, gaining instant gratitude from a white family, another mind-altering experience.
Joey and I made the all-star team named the Patriots, and we used to play this game. We would be the announcers and introduce the starting lineup in our best professional voices. “Batting first Joey “The Hammer” Romano, second up Juan “Scrappy” Garcia, third we have Junior “Dinger” Manaulo, and at the cleanup spot from Birmingham, Alabama, Reggie “Homerun” Harris! Our field of dreams had some weeds and even a couple of rats running the bases sometimes, but when we stepped onto the field, we were the Patriots, and we were One.