Hot Sands

It was as though every single grain of sand had stood up and shouted, “get off the beach nigger!’  My mom stood her ground.  I felt threatened, but secure in the fact that my mom knew exactly how to handle the ugly crowd of white people surrounding us.  My memory is less than perfect of course, but I do remember the emotion of the day.

It was a hot, mid-summer day in day in Chicago and I was less than ten years old.  People went to the beach in those days, in the early 1950's as air conditioning was just a dream for the masses.  That is white people went to the beach.  Black people were expected to stay within the cloistered areas of the city and to persevere in the squalor of the slums and tenements.  The hot cement and bricks were to be our summer vacation spots, with the occasional open fire hydrant and ice cream truck to cool us off if things got severe. We were not supposed to be on the beautiful, open lakefront of Chicago, America's second largest city. That was for white folks.  My mom knew that. However, she also knew that her God had created this haven from the heat for all, not just for people who hated niggers.

‘Get off the beach niggers!’  The crowd was hostile and it seemed as though they were literally ready to pounce on us.  The fire and hatred in their eyes found its expressions in the bright red skin of their bodies and the sweat pouring from their brows.  Little boys, and girls, grown men and women, each in their own way made it clear that not only were we not accepted on the beach, but that to stay would mean danger to our very bodies and lives.

My mom kept the three of us together, huddled on our beach towels, trying as best as she could to put a good spin on the obviously dangerous scenario.  At times like this a song, or poem were part of her usual repertoire.  She would sing songs of faith, and hope, quote Bible verses or recite poetry in order to ‘keep a lid’ on our desire to bawl and cry and to strengthen our very shaky faith in Christ.

I don’t recall the songs or poems as part of her strategy that day.  It seemed that even she was afraid.  It reminded me of the time she had come home after having been beaten by the police for going the right way down a one way street, or having been rejected for a job for which she felt more than worthy to hold, only because she was black and a woman.  Being black and a single or divorced mother in those days, was to be a weak and discarded vessel, a desperate person from a despised race of people.

My mom stood her ground.  ‘We have a right to be here.  This is a public beach’ she said.  She spoke as though she really thought someone in the crowd would understand and be of a mind to reason and consider.  She spoke from the ideals she had learned reading from the Bible, Leaves of Gold, Socrates, Augustine and Martin Luther King.  She pretended not to know that very few people in the crowd had read anything more in their lifetime than the Chicago Sun Times or Tribune.  She pretended that her understanding of ‘love your brother’ as commanded by Christ was a universal mind set, held by all who had ever heard the name of Jesus.  She spoke from naiveté and hope. 

The angry crowd of white people were as hot as the sand in the 90 plus Fahrenheit degree weather and the only thing that would cool them down was either an immediate sunset, or our immediate retreat from this sacred sand of theirs.  We were a contaminant and like all refuse, we must be removed and deposited as far away as possible.

The police arrived on the scene.  I remember that very distinctly as my mother showed such great hope and optimism as they approached the four of us.  My brother, sister and I stood together, and listened intently as my mom made her plea.  For three black children, being defended by mom instead of dad was the norm.  So many dads were absent.  So many dads were fearful.  So many dads had just walked away or were driven away by the harsh reality of a system that did not allow them to function as men in their homes.  It was then as it is now, dangerous to be a live black man.  It was then and is now, a situation of extremes.  My father somehow could not live with the extremes of having to be a presence of authority in the home, and yet have none recognized by the society in which he dwelt.  It was untenable for him as it is for most black men today.

After a rather lengthy discussion, the police who were dressed in their dark blue uniforms and sweating like everyone else on the beach decided they would uphold the tradition and not the law of the land.

‘You are just going to have to leave miss.  There is nothing we can do to protect you here.  You knew that this was a beach for white people anyway and there is nothing we can do to keep you safe here.’ 

My mother went on to plead her case, but it was obvious that between the hard looks of the crowd, and the hot sun baking these two officers that they had felt enough sweat for the day and were not inclined to try to protect four niggers on the beach.  As they escorted us back to our car, I felt helpless and yet hopeful  I knew that there was no power on earth that could stop people from hating me.  I also knew that my mom would defend our family with idealism and optimism founded in faith in God, even if there was no way to win.  I learned that I must have the same mindset when confronted with hot sand and hateful people.

Comments

[Mrs. B]

Just saw the new movie, Hotel Rwanda. Your mother's strength and courage reminds me of the main character in this new movie that is very worth watching....