First Person Singular

I’m sure we’ve all experienced racism at first hand. I have. Two instances: one verbal, one violent and physical.

A few years ago, an electrician came on Martin Luther King’s birthday and when I asked why he was working that day, he answered, “They only killed one.”

I got a new electrician. This was in Cape May Court House, New Jersey.

Years back, I was teaching a speed reading course in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Another teacher and I, both from Philly at the time, had a rented house on Missionary Ridge and used to hang out in a nearby bar where we were sort of tolerated as Yankees.

One night, by myself, I went by public transportation into Chattanooga’s black section to hear some jazz at a bar there. I was treated with friendship and respect. In fact, I was bought so many drinks that by the time I was ready to leave, I was pretty drunk.

Some black dudes, seeing my condition, offered me a ride back to Missionary Ridge. I had them drop me at the bar there.

Obviously, some of the people in the bar had seen me get out of a car full of black people. At closing, I was staggering drunk, and a guy offered me a ride.

I was in the passenger seat and there were two guys in the back seat. We hadn’t gone far when one of them said, “Hey, nigger lover,” and when I looked around hit me in the face with a full beer can. The other guy joined in with his beer can, and the two rained blows all over my head as I tried to duck away, but the driver joined in with his elbow and fist and I was getting totally tuned in. I was drunk enough that I didn’t feel the full savagery of their attack, but it sobered me up enough to know that I was bleeding and in deep, mortal trouble.

The beating was accompanied by a torrent of racist curses and threats to my life.

It seemed to go on forever, and I was on the verge of unconsciousness when they pulled over and pushed me out of the car. Groggily, I sat up and saw that I was on a quiet street in the warehouse district.

Then I heard the car stop and turn around. I knew for certain that they were coming back to finish me off. I crawled to a nearby parked car and slid under and pulled myself up on the undercarriage, hoping they’d miss me if they looked under the car.

I was lucky. After a cursory search, they went back to the car. One of them said, “We should have killed the Yankee bastard.”

I made my way to a nearby house and knocked on the door. When the resident came to the door and saw my condition, he called the police.

I spent the night in the hospital. 

I never went back to that bar, either.

These were people who would today form Trump’s base.

They are still out there, in Cape May Court House and Chattanooga.

Despite Barack Obama’s invocation of Nelson Mandela’s rejoinder to love, I don’t know if that will be enough.

I hope I’m wrong.