Pink
et al.
Born in the 1950s, I was raised in a white Philadelphia suburb. It wasn't healthy but valued. Young me once asked Mom if colored people lived in colored houses. It wasn't such a pathetic question; this was back when life was still largely black and white.
My parents were very white, but were unique on the street since we occasionally had black company. I'd like to reflect on a few of the people young me had the good fortune to know. Thank god for these people. They saved me.
My apologies in advance for offensive content.
In the 1960s my dad worked at Fels Naptha Soap, an old brick factory along Cobbs Creek on the edge of Philadelphia and Colwyn. I don't know what he did but he shared a brick office with a negro, and they got along well. They ate lunch together every day, Fridays in the company cafeteria.
I knew Dad's officemate because he fixed cars out of his garage on nights and weekends, and my dad always took our cars to him. I called him Uncle Cliff, because his name was Cliff, and because it made both of us smile.
He came to dinner twice, drove the first time, took the bus that stopped down the corner the second time. That second evening was explosive.
Mom was clearing the plates, discussing her desert offerings. Uncle Cliff was clearly quiet, and Dad asked him what was wrong. None of us were prepared for what we heard.
Last time he parked on our busy narrow street, there was a guy standing up on his porch.
"You can't park there. Its reserved for white people. Get outa here," the man said, then went into his house. Cliff never mentioned it.
My mother asked why.
"Well you just get used to it," He sighed.
(My first look into what being a negro meant.)
This night he was walking up our street and again that man was on his porch. As he passed, Cliff heard "Go home! Get outa here! We don't want your type here!"
My father was born in 1913, never finished high school and was a good person but not very sophisticated about managing his feelings. He turned red, and calmly said, "Which house, Cliff?"
"Don't let it ruin a good night," Cliff said.
"What house?" Dad repeated. "The one with the green awning?"
Cliff cautiously nodded. My father got up, went to the kitchen to refill his water glass, set it on the table and walked out the front door.
My mother panicked. Clint tried to calm her down. "He's gonna do what he's gonna do Florence - gotta have faith."
We each stared at our slice of peach pie that sat before us. None of us touched them. Where is he?
One of the kids I played with on the street, four doors down, was Barry. His father, Eugene, was known as Yip. This made no sense to my Dad who assumed he never heard it right, so whenever they were talking between back yards, Dad called him Rip, Dip or 'ip. Cliff's man on the porch was Yip.
An hour passed. It seemed like days. We heard the front door open and there was Yip, towering over the dining room table.
"Shit," my young brain said.
"Cliff, I'm Yip. Jack (my Dad) has been telling me about you. You didn't deserve any of that. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Cliff extended his hand; Yip took it and balled like a baby,
Dad pulled the fourth dining room chair up to the table and put a slice of pie and fork in front of it.
"You don't hate me?" he asked Cliff.
"I don't hate anyone," Cliff calmly said. "Why do you hate me?"
"I work at Westinghouse with a group of all negros ... they ignore me or treat me like shit every day. I?I just hate them. I don't hate you, Cliff. I was so wrong. I'm such a shit," Yip said.
Cliff looked into his eyes and said, "I forgive you."
"If the situation was the other way around, I don't know if I could," Yip thought.
Cliff said, "You can walk down my street whenever you want. People might assume you're lost and offer to help, and they always will."
Yip broke down again, picturing black people helping him. Clearly the last hour had not been easy.
My dad said, "Eat your pie then its time to go. I'm not as understanding as my friend, but I do know who I'd rather have as a neighbor."
Yip didn't say another word, got up, nodded to Cliff and walked out.
"You've got quite a Dad," Uncle Cliff said to me.
Yes, I did. It was a special day. I was proud. I don't know why Cliff never came to dinner again. I miss him. He did show me that people can have a dark side that you may never see. He also showed me that there is no reason why everyone (adults) can't treat each other with respect.
Let's go back to 1970.
For two summers during my college years, I arrived each morning at the General Electric factory in southwest Philly (69th and Elmwood Ave.) in a beautiful Triumph TR 7 convertible. I had run into a guy from my school, one year older, at GE. It was his car. He agreed to swing by and pick me up every morning. I paid for gas. He didn't tell me that his two-seater already had another passenger - I learned this the first morning. Two seats, both occupied. I tied myself to the small trunk like a dead deer. Joke. I just climbed into the small space behind the seats. It was decadent fun that morning, but miserable on rainy days when the top went up.
Then there was HIM. HE had a permanent job at GE. We were both the same age. In the summer, the company asked younger employees to work an extra 4 to 8 hours for as many days as we'd like, to do inventory. He and I both wanted the extra money (time and a half!), so we would often work 16 hour days.
We first met in the cafeteria. He sat across from me and said hi. My response was "holy shit." I didn't feel bad. It was the early 70s, when you could walk up to a pregnant girl, pat her belly and ask when she was due. Rude was often just the way we were.
I assumed that "holy shit" was something he'd heard often, considering what he was. Maybe I was very wrong. He just smiled.
He was the only black albino I'd ever met, ever seen. His skin was that of a white man who never saw the sun, covered with pink freckles; his eyes, with no pigments, were pink, as was his hair. Still his features were that of a colored man.
"What do you like best?" he asked. Tough question.
"Pepsi!" I answered.
"Smart ass," he replied. "But seriously what on this unique body do you like the best?"
"Well, I'm of course jealous of the pink afro," I said.
He smiled. "But ?"
"But your eyes, set in such a kind face, are a bit demonic. I like that. Scary movie scary. I'm envious."
"Never heard that one before," he grinned. And from that day on, we ate lunches and dinners and second lunches together and found hiding places to sneak in half hour naps every evening.
On that first day we did introduce ourselves, promptly forgot each other's names, and were too foolish to acknowledge it, so he called me "White" and I called him "Pink."
We spent much of our time comparing lives. I was in college, an only child living with my parents. He made me tell him about his life, so I guessed: Lived within walking distance of the factory with his mom; was homeless before he got the GE job. I also didn't know what he did there. I was a mediocre forklift driver. His clothes were greasier than mine; same every day.
After about three weeks he asked me if I wanted to know how much of his life I got right.
I suggested 50%.
"You're wrong."
"By how much?"
"50%."
I was embarrassed to be white.
He had an apartment in center city. He had gone to a private school in Vermont.
His father was someone I worked for! A welder by day, violinist for the Philadelphia Orchestra by night. His father called me "College Boy". He explained to me how we were at two ends of a spectrum which were not very different.
"So, what are you studying, College Boy?"
"Chemistry."
"Think you'll get a Ph.D.?"
I hadn't thought about it, but I liked the science, so "yes, if I could."
"You'll be a doctor! Maybe even a well known one. Who you are will be determined by your title. Nothing wrong with that. Your title will open doors for you."
"Who am I?" he asked. "What do I do? I don't really care. I have a good job that allows me to take care of my family, and to do what I really love - play music."
"Two roads to the same place, to get to the point where you can do what you love. So, don't ever look down on anyone because of their job. Capisce?"
Great, he spoke Italian too. I called him Uncle C.
But back to Pink. Apparently for our first few weeks he'd always change into factory clothes before entering the cafeteria, but eventually he just wore his normal work clothes - a suit. He was a trainee in the front office.
I needed this reality check.
I asked him to come over for dinner one Sunday, and he eagerly accepted. I told my parents only that I'd invited a friend over for dinner, hoping they wouldn't embarrass me too much.
The doorbell rang and I took him back into the kitchen where mom was cooking.
"Mom, this is my friend from work."
She blurted out a motherly version of "holy shit," then ran her fingers through his hair and oohed and aahed. He laughed, enjoying the attention.
When I heard the toilet flush I ran upstairs, passing my father on the steps.
From up there, I could hear voices, but then silence.
By the time I returned, Mom was alone in the kitchen. "Do you know how to make greens?" she asked.
I didn't answer. He was gone. Dad was gone. How can you lose two people in a row house? I checked the back yard and the front porch. Then thankfully I heard a loud crack, sharp like a gun shot. I squeezed past my mother to the basement door. They were down there.
"You dad is awesome," he said. showing me a few trick shots he'd already learned.
We had fun that evening, the four of us playing pool all night. He even ran to the store after dinner and came back with all the fixin's to show mom how make greens.
For my college summers I returned to GE, to overtime, and to spending time with total uniqueness.
I haven't seen him since my last day of work there. He gave me a small box, my graduation present. A shiny new Karmann Ghia key was inside. I held it in silence.
"It's a Karmann Ghia key. Cool, eh?" he asked.
I stared at him. He changed the subject. It was a great "don't be silly" gift.
I gave it to a good friend on his wedding day. I pray he will continue the tradition, but
i think it just confused him.
I had a thousand questions for Pink. Did he suffer twice? As a black man and as some visual oddity?
The answer was neither. He chose not to participate in such silliness. Instead, he decided how people would see him.
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Obi Wan/Storm Troopers
"These aren't the droids you're looking for"/"These aren't the droids we're looking for"
"You can go about your business"/ "We can go about our business."
"You should move along"/"We will move along"
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He became bigger than life to people he met. No one had a preconceived notion about his "type", so he projected a superstar aura. Neither of us ever defined it but I certainly experienced it, especially when he was in a coat and tie. He was a new species, a blank slate that only he wrote on.
I was a very fortunate kid. In some ways I was clueless, and had my parents to thank. I had no reason to dislike black people, although many around me did. One of my best friends was a Stalberg. One day another kid said, "Why do you hang out with that Jew?" I wanted to ask him what was wrong with being Jewish, and how did he even know. I didn't. It turns out people could tell if someone was Jewish, Irish, whatever just by their names. I never learned these things, and I thank my parents for my ignorance.
I did learn a bit about Jewish names when I was 13, from my Uncle Haskel. My mother had 10 brothers and sisters; many of them with spouses who met on Sundays at my grandparents' home in Darby, and the men would play cards after dinner. They never invited my uncle to play, so he and I would often sit on the upstairs steps and talk. This is how they treated him. He didn't exist. So confusing.
He was the only person I knew who went to college (Penn). He read about three books a week and had a big collection stored in grandma's basement. One evening we walked past the boys and down the steps. He grabbed an Acme bag on the way down and selected a bag full of books that he wanted me to have. I was looking through one, getting lost in the sexy soft leather cover, when I came across the bookplate.
PROPERTY OF HASKEL WINSBERG.
Why did my uncle, Haskel Winslow, have this? He explained to me that lots of people wouldn't work with Jewish businessmen, so he had to change his name. That crushed me. I hated my country for doing this to him; hated the men laughing around the kitchen table upstairs for being unable to give one of the finest people I knew a chance. I felt very alone. I didn't want to know any of this, but it couldn't be undone. You can't return to innocent.
When I met Pink, I could feel the stares of white men, angry because I was talking to one of them. I stared back, proud to be Pink's friend, fortunate to have met some amazing people, fortunate that I did not know the senseless hatred that needlessly consumed so many around me.
It was not that long ago. Still, it was a very different time. I was a very lucky young white boy, growing up in Philadelphia.