Black And White @ MindSay

Many of you may have noticed that I usually go outside to take photos.  Most of what I shoot has something to do with nature or the outdoors.  A couple nights this week, I just stayed in and did a little shooting.  A different method, slightly different style for me, but I like how they turned out.

Oh, and before you ask, no, I don't play guitar... I've tried, but this is the most action the guitar has seen in quite some time.

Just a couple pics from my trip out to Denver last weekend.  New header pic is also part of this set.  Conditions for shooting weren't good, but I was pleasantly surprised by how these turned out despite that.  These were taken near Frisco, CO.

1

My parents met in 1947 and married in 1950, a black woman and a white man. For years I wasn’t able to figure out why, not that I’m altogether sure I have yet. I wonder if they had any idea what an emotional price they would pay or what a gift their union would ultimately give to me. Of course there’s the obvious reason, they loved each other. In light of the condition of our country then, love hardly seems like an adequate reason. Their behavior was totally unacceptable; it’s as if they thumbed their noses at society in general. In some places their marriage was even against the law. My father’s family was so upset by it that they changed the spelling of their name so that we wouldn’t line up in the phone book together and therefore no one would know they were related to us.

2

I know for my mother there was the issue of bettering herself economically, which the marriage certainly did for her. Not that they were wealthy, my dad was a manual laborer, but my mom definitely didn’t have to clean someone’s home to survive. Back then it was the only job that a black woman could do; domestics,  the word still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. So anyway the marriage spared my mother the humiliation of being a maid as well as trying to survive on those meager wages.

3

Eventually my father worked two full-time jobs to provide us with a very comfortable lifestyle. They bought several homes, invested wisely and had no money problems. My mom made sure I had all the best of everything. I remember clearly having closets full of beautiful outfits with matching tights and shoes in the first grade. One of my classmates' parents even asked my mother where she bought my clothes. She shopped in all the finest stores, catalog ordering the sharpest outfits she could find as if I were in high school instead of just first grade. I’m sure that having all those expensive clothes was one way she compensated for my color.

4

The first grade was also the first time I was called nigger. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was at the drinking fountain and some strange child walked up just as I leaned over to drink and shouted, “Nigger!”  It seemed so odd to me even then. Why would someone do that? How was I supposed to react? My parents had warned me about people who behaved like that; their parents weren’t very smart, and they were usually poor; not the kind of people we associated with. I didn’t even tell my parents. I didn’t want them to feel bad or to do anything to draw even more attention to me.

5

It was about that same time I started to hear from both of them how we minorities always had to be smarter, and work harder, and usually still receive less. I wondered if they instinctively knew what was happening at school. Still I did not tell them anything about what was happening almost on a daily basis for a while. I just figured eventually those stupid kids would get tired of picking on me. Mom drove me back and forth to school every day, even picking me up for lunch, driving me home and back all in thirty-five minutes. I felt so special even though I thought she was a little overly protective; none of my friends' parents did all that. I mean sometimes they got driven to school, but not every day and certainly not at lunch time.

6

Of course part of the reason was to protect me from those horrible kids who always called me names when I walked past their house. The name calling really didn’t bother me that much; I would think of the story about my grandfather when he was walking to school so many years before. Every day he had to pass the home of this elderly lady who had a parrot on her screened-in front porch and every day that parrot would say, “Here come the niggers!” I always thought that was pretty funny and my grandfather survived it. So I just accepted it as part of growing up as a minority.

7

What was far more embarrassing was getting chauffeured around all the time by my mom. I wanted to be like the other kids, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and finally my dad saved me; he found a shortcut I could take to school and I didn’t even have to pass that house. Back then I never realized that they had discussed my dilemma and come up with a solution; I always thought it was just a fluke. I now know how hurt they must have been, how much  it pains a parent to see her child hurt. I wonder if then they thought they had made a mistake?

8

When I look back on our life it seems we were so isolated. My parents weren’t able to go out to eat, my mom couldn’t be served, or stay in a hotel, or even rent an apartment. Three years after they were married I was born. They were living in a rooming house, and when I was five they bought our first home. I can’t figure out how we managed to be so happy; after all, we were the oddity. I was twelve years old before I knew another family like ours, and even they were a little different—the woman was white and the man black. Our lives, our community, our world was filled with with bigotry, hatred, and injustice. Their life together was nothing like the lives of married couples today; no neighborhood parties, no favorite bar to hang out in, no company picnics or Christmas party.

9

Oh, yes, there was the one bar, Silagi’s, the same bar they had met each other in. Mary and John Silagi, the owners, were Hungarian I think, and had the only bar in my home town, Aurora, Illinois, that allowed a mixed clientele. I  remember Mary very well, she was my godmother and one of the few close family friends we had. My parents didn’t have hardly any other white friends; they did have a few black friends and my mother’s family. I think they were afraid if too many people found out it would jeopardize my father’s job; he never told anyone he worked with that his wife was black, never took any pictures to work. I remember when the laws were changing and blacks would be allowed in all public places, my dad had stopped after work with the guys, and the bartender told them, “Yeah, we’re going to serve those niggers, but we’ll charge ‘em a dollar a beer.”  He came home and told us the story, without any real emotion, just an odd expression, he seemed empty, and he looked so tired to me.

10

That remark was only the beginning; even though the law changed, people did not; if anything some were even more dead set against integration. My mother foolishly thought since the new law was in effect she would be able to experience her lifelong dream of a wonderful new home in an upwardly mobile neighborhood. I think my dad knew, but kept quiet, letting her find out for herself—and did she ever. My parents owned several homes by then and were financially sound. My mother began searching for her dream home and in no time at all she found one. The realtor picked us up and off we went. I remember walking in the front door, my mother’s smile, and the realtor introducing us to the owner, who promptly ran from the room crying. Apparently it was devastating to her to even think that we would live in her home, and when we were out in the yard she quietly whispered to the realtor, “My neighbors would hate us....”

11

So it was my mom who decided if the owners were that stupid why give them our money, we’ll just look a little longer until we find someone decent to give our money to. She was very angry. There was a flaw in her thoughts, because we looked for months and months, never finding anyone decent, until she finally found another dream house and an owner who seemed decent! This one was brand new and for sale by owner. My mother called and made an appointment, and when we arrived the owner showed us through and didn’t even cringe when he saw my mom and me. The house was what she always wanted; I can still see the lilac half-bath on the main floor. Dad was at work, so she made another appointment so he could see it, too, but she already knew this was the one, finally. When we went back, with Dad, the owner had that expression, that funny look was what I called it then. I was thirteen.

12

I think he would have sold us that house if we had been an all-black family, but an interracial couple was more than he was willing to accept. My parents wanted to buy this one, so they called the owner to set up an appointment with our attorney to draw up the papers, but the owner told her he wouldn’t even consider selling to a family like ours.  I can still remember the anger and hurt she expressed.  My poor dad, he looked a lot like he had when he told us that beer story, really tired and empty. I’ll never forget that house or how they both behaved for a long long time afterwards; there was something missing in our home. There was a different air for a long time. Finally they bought a cute house, not in the neighborhood my mom wanted and not brand new. They completely redecorated it; my mom even hired an interior decorator. She never mentioned that other house again, and eventually we got back to our old selves. By then I was fifteen.

13

While we were going through the house dilemma, society had made a complete change and our family finally was able to go out together. My mom never seemed to enjoy it much, but the change was just in time for me. I was at that point where socialization becomes a priority in your life; the burger and coke after school was almost required. I often wonder how different my life would have been if the law hadn’t changed. Those friends were so vital in shaping my values and beliefs, in building my self-esteem. Looking back on it, it seems we were so isolated, especially in the earlier years of my life. Everywhere we went, people stared and often made those ugly remarks. Even my dad’s own family never made any attempt to get to know us, my mom and me. They had been married for twenty-five years when my father died; few of his family attended his wake and none his funeral.

14

Somehow, we survived it all and we weren’t too terribly affected by all the negativity. I enjoyed those years, for the most part, did well in school, and had lots of friends. My parents worked very hard to create a home that was safe and loving. They taught me that family is a sacred institution and that its success is dependent upon on one another needing, trusting, and relying on each other. Loving families learn to accept each individual for his or her uniqueness and special contributions. To be empathetic and appreciative of the beauty of your fellow human beings, one and all. To follow your heart and not to be swayed by others. But most important my parents taught me that the world can be very judgmental and intolerant of differences. That the world seems to have an insatiable need for power and control; to ignore it and those who have chosen to endorse it. You are truly only successful when you are true to yourself. I owe them a great deal and probably still don’t fully realize how lucky I was to have been their child.