Racism is Real Unlike How Donald Trump, Mike Pence and Bill Barr Deny It! I Saw It as Young Man and Year Laters…. A Hurtful and Personal Memory

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By James Gatto

Racism is alive and well. And these days nastier than ever. But what could I, a white guy from Brooklyn, have to contribute to the topic, and more importantly, the struggle, about which I know nothing? Despite my trepidation, I decided that writing this piece–the process–may reveal some things for me, and hopefully, for you. It’s true, I know nothing of the struggle, but I have watched it unfold before my eyes. I grew up with it every day, all around me, in the ether. The ugliness, the vitriol, the hatred, the ignorance. For the most part, I wasn’t on the receiving end of it, not until I was around 17 and traveling cross country. But I’ll start from, well…where it all started.

One of my first real friends was an African American boy named Darryl. We were around 5 when we met on our first day of kindergarten. I can’t tell you how we became friends–we just did. And we would remain so until the summer before we were to enter high school when Darryl moved away. When I met Darryl on our first day of kindergarten, I didn’t see color. He was no different than anyone else I had ever seen before. I had very rarely seen an African American in my five years to that point, but when I met Darryl, I didn’t even have a thought about it. And I remember vividly our time together in kindergarten. My days in kindergarten are my earliest memories, and of great significance being my first experience in school. Playing with the blocks, the miniature house in the middle of the classroom, in which we all took turns sitting down at the little table and having tea. And my mean teacher who seemed to have a genuine dislike for children. It puzzles me to this day why she was chosen as a kindergarten teacher. The kids all got along, but we didn’t like Mrs. Goldberg. She was the enemy. As it turned out, the least of our worries.

My first encounter with racism was the next year when Darryl and I we’re in first grade together. I invited Darryl over my house to hang out and look over our baseball cards. My mom made us some snacks, we hung out together for a while and then it was time for Darryl to go home. As we were walking out to the car to take Darryl home, my landlord was out in the hallway. When we got back home my landlord told my mom that that black boy was not allowed in the building. And that is if he was ever brought there again, we would be evicted. My mom had to break the news to me. My friend was not allowed in my house. When I asked why, my mom to her credit, told me the truth. A day I’ll never forget. I was around six or seven years old and I had been initiated into the hard-cold world of racism. I didn’t know the word, I didn’t understand the phenomenon, I just knew it felt wrong.

I never spoke about it with Darryl–ever. And he never asked. It just wasn’t a thing. I think back and realize two things: Darryl had been dealing with this long before that encounter, and I’m sure his parents schooled him on the subject and what he’d be dealing with. I also realized that Darryl kind of let me off the hook. Even years later when we were old enough to understand what happened, he never once brought it up. And I never had to answer for it. I’m hoping he thought our friendship was more important than that. It certainly was for me. It’s been over 40 years since I’ve seen Darryl, but I still think about him and wonder how he’s doing. I point this out for a reason: there was no bullshit between us. We were truly friends with no motives other than we liked each other. That could only happen if you’re unaware of racism. Racism is a thing; it lives and breathes. It needs oxygen to exist, to subsist, to be. It needs to be fed to be a thing. Without the fuel there is no fire. When I was five the fire hadn’t started yet. We were innocent. We hadn’t encountered that zeitgeist just yet.

The zeitgeist showed up in 6th grade, my first year of Intermediate School. Busing had been instituted in New York, much to the ire of the white people and a small part of the black community, as well. For me, that’s when racism became a focal point. Up until then, it had been floating around but I never really paid attention. But when it became a thing there began to be a palpable tension at the school. In the hallways there were dirty looks, in the cafeteria there were fights, and a genuine dislike had been growing on the part of both parties. At the risk of psychoanalyzing, I would imagine from the black children, their anger stemmed from knowing they weren’t welcome. For the white children, they took the attitude that this is my neighborhood, my school, and you don’t belong here. And those sentiments from both sides were loud and clear. So, we began to segregate ourselves. The black kids didn’t hang out with the white kids and vice versa. But I always hung out with my friend Darryl. That never stopped. You see, that friendship was established long before the arrival of racism in our lives. Had I met Darryl years later there’s a good chance we probably would have never became friends. The opportunity wouldn’t have been there. I often think about how many friendships that never happened because of this.

In 7th grade I had a social studies teacher Mr. McClendon. Mr. McClendon whose first name I later found out was Jim, was an African American man who came to work in a suit and tie every day. Mr. McClendon had no control over his classes. Why? Because he was the only black teacher in predominantly white school. And I must admit, as the class clown, I was as guilty, if not more, than anyone else for causing turmoil in 7th period Social Studies. The tomfoolery went on for the first few months until one of my classmates attacked him. Jim McClendon was a big man, well over 6 feet tall and a barrel chest. Junior, as he was known to us, took offense to some disciplinary measures and attacked the big teacher. Mr. McClendon did nothing. He just grabbed Junior and held him close so he couldn’t throw any punches. It was over in a few seconds, but the image is burned in my memory, his tie whipping from side to side as he wrapped his arms around his assailant. Junior was expelled and transferred to another school. From that day forward I never misbehaved in that class. I felt so bad for Mr. McClendon that I vowed to never mess around in his class again.

And I didn’t. Now, I have to be honest here and say that I knew full well why Mr. McClendon’s class was the one in which you could do whatever you wanted. And as a 13-year-old comedian it didn’t matter why, as long as I could be the center of attention. I took advantage of that. Guilty as charged. But I also learned the first of many important lessons, which would play a significant role in shaping me as a man. When I look back, that was one of those moments. Mr. McClendon was a person with feelings, with dignity, and a fine gentleman. He didn’t deserve that treatment. I felt terrible about it, but not because of his color, or quite frankly, his vulnerability, but because he was a man. Period. But that was precisely the reason those indignities were perpetrated on him–the color of his skin. No one bothered to know him. That would stick with me until this very day.

All kids have two lives, their life in and outside of school. My life outside of school was a lot of fun. I played sports every day from dawn to dusk. I lived directly across the street from my junior high school. That schoolyard was readily available for me and all the kids in the neighborhood. Everything happened in that schoolyard for me. It’s where I forged my closest friendships, where I fantasized about playing professional sports. Hitting the big home run in the bottom of the ninth or scoring the big goal in overtime. It’s where we flirted with the girls, it’s where I got my sex education, it’s where I learned how to get along with others. It’s where my friends talked about their conversations with their parents. It’s where I was told that I should stick to my own kind. It’s where no black people came. They didn’t come to our neighborhood and we didn’t go to theirs. Our parents forbid it. And, not necessarily out of racism, but for our safety–ostensibly, perhaps. But nevertheless, we were being indoctrinated by our elders. That bigotry was in the ether. Like an underlying scourge. Omnipresent. New York was becoming a pressure cooker, and in the mid 70s it culminated in race riots. We had one at my high school. There were guns and other weapons of mass destruction. We were on the news. Our 15 minutes….

When I was 17, I traveled across the country with my two Hispanic friends. We were on the last leg of the journey and were running low on funds. So, no money for a motel, we had to sleep in the truck for a few nights. Driving through Tennessee and in desperate need of a shower, we saw a sign for an upcoming truck stop with showers. We pulled in, and I got out and walked into a bar where the person with the keys to the showers was supposed to be. The bar patrons took one look at me and they weren’t having it. It was dark and dingy with 20 or 30 guys who obviously never bothered to ask the barman for the keys to the showers. But, I did. Silly me. “There ain’t no showers here, boy!” Exit, stage left. I wasn’t watching the movie “Deliverance”, I was in it! As I walked outside, my two friends were on their way in. In those days, I always had a very dark tan, and my friends were even darker. The cretins saw the New York license plates and we were screwed. We high-tailed it back to the truck, but they surrounded us. I’m yelling to the driver, GO! C’MON! But the cretins were blocking the road. I put my foot on top of the driver’s and floored it! They moved–faster than a jackrabbit on a hot date. That was the first time I was on the receiving end of the ugly.

I started playing drums at around 11 years old. I wasn’t in a band until around 15. Most of my playing took place in my home, or a friend’s home, or garage, or in the school music room. It would be music, and later, drama around which I forged my most important and satisfying relationships. Where I learned my most important life lessons. Where I learned, for me, what life is all about. Art, if anything, is beauty. When you create beauty with others something happens in the farthest reaches in your soul. You feel alive. It’s a communion. You and them. It doesn’t matter what they look like, where they’re from, who they sleep with, what they do for a living, or what race or religion. You’re creating beautiful things together and you love them–the serotonin…the dopamine…flowing. A love cocktail. Maybe that what they mean when they talk about “chemistry.” Your heart is open for business. That’s what I learned. Camaraderie is the key to your heart. Whether it be sports, the arts, or whatever else, it’s about different people coming together. Oneness, not otherness.

I escaped that otherness by venturing out into the world. Meeting the “others.” I started going to clubs in Manhattan when I was 15 (Yes, I knew the bouncers). Playing music with different people. Studying drama with people from all over the world. I was interested in “otherness.” I’m not bragging. There’s a point to this pontificating: It seems so simple, so why is it so complicated? Why is it so hard for ALL people to come together? If there’s one answer, there’s a thousand more. I don’t claim to have the answers. But I do know what I know–my particular experience. Indoctrination is a key element, for sure. A belief system whose foundation is based in fear leads to a closed mind. Closed mind, closed heart. I wonder if racists ever stop to think about where they were born, and what privileges or disadvantages are attached to that. What if they were a Jew born in Nazi Germany? What if they were born in Ethiopia during the famine? Or living in Hiroshima in 1945? No one controls where they’re born or to whom. Not their race nor their color, Yet, all those unlucky people suffered the consequences of circumstances they didn’t create. Racists believe they are better than everyone else, and for no legitimate reason based on zero merit. Yet, at any given time, they could be next. Ignorance…plain and simple.

Mr. Jim McClendon passed away some years ago. May he Rest in Peace…

Darryl. I’m thinking of you. Hope you are well.

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