Now I See
Larry Jones (photographed December 6, 2018)
I have a close friend named Larry Jones whom I met in 1982. We did not hit it off at first, not for any real reason, but just because we have different personalities. Larry is quiet and I tend to talk, even to be boisterous at times. Also, Larry and I have a fundamental difference. He is quite a bit less tall than I am and I am five foot seven inches tall.
Larry and I worked together some as he was located in Elk City, Oklahoma and I was temporarily in Oklahoma working out of Bartlesville but on my way to North Dakota for my permanent location. He was an experienced mud engineer and when I could, I learned from him and his experiences. Over the next year I saw him only at our company meetings and we greeted each other like gentlemen and talked about business but we still had not yet grown into a deep friendship.
One day, about two years later, we were to have a sales meeting at Lake Conroe, Texas. We spent our first day at the airport Double Tree Hotel and the next day departed for the conference and as luck would have it, Larry wound up riding with me, just the two of us in my company car. Larry was in the market for a new car and interested in a Volvo so he asked me to stop at the dealer. Larry said, “Stephen, when he comes out, he will walk over to you, shake your hand, offer his card, ask how you are and all, and he won’t even see me.” I felt bad that Larry saw the world this way but I could think of nothing to say. The young man, good looking, well dressed, smiling, and warm rushed out to meet us. We both got out of the car and the young man bypassed Larry, rushed to my side, shook my hand warmly, asked how I was and offered me his business card. He did not say hello to Larry nor even see him. I said, “Sir, my friend here is the one interested in your cars.” The young man blushed, embarrassed at his blunder, and then he turned to shake hands with Larry, finally realizing his error. It was not Larry's first experience with this behavior.
For the first time, I had a glimpse of life through a black man’s eyes, a sobering glimpse. I had known black kids, boys and girls, and I had had some acquaintanceship with black people. We called them colored then. I did not have the same depth of friendship with any black kids as I did with my white and even Indian friends and Indian friends included my cousins. I had never had a black friend close enough that I stayed the night with them; I have never asked a black kid to stay the night with me. I did not think I was racist or biased in any way. From the day I saw that happen to Larry, I began to watch my own behavior and that of my friends. I am not nor will I be perfect in this life because, try as I might, I still see color between people. I wish I did not because I want a better world for everyone and I know it won’t arrive until the election of a black woman or man, or just about anyone who is different, is seen as just another election, not an historical one as was John F. Kennedy (The first Catholic), and all the others that have been different.
One day, in a fast food restaurant, I saw a family that had two half-sisters, one a white child, the other a child who was half black and half white. She looked more black than white because her skin was dark and her features were more towards some of the black children I have seen. It was obvious they were sisters and that they loved each other. The grandfather with them loved them both too and that was just as obvious. Since the day of the Volvo, I began to watch what I say. I have told few jokes that involved black people since then, because if I did, my little small voice asked, “Stephen, would you tell that story in front of Larry, in front of Deborah (his wife), in front of Cody (his son)?” The answer was always “no,” and I began to see how I had contributed to the way life was, and is, for black people. I try to make my small contributions now, and they are small, but when someone tells one of these stories, I try to find the courage to speak up in my own gentle way and tell them that what they did was not right and I ask them, “How would you feel if you had a half black child?” I think of the things my grandmother went through when she was called a squaw in a derogatory fashion and when she told me that there were places she was not allowed to go and that some people would not speak with her or sit with her because of her dark skin. Sometimes, in front of my grandmother, I said something stupid about an Indian and I would see her reproachful gaze and I learned to respect my Indian relatives, who were more Indian than I and who got the bulk of any statements from other kids. Jess Tomey, a Pottawatomie Indian, was one of my best friends and we kidded about things such as our differences and he used to joke with me and David Meriable, an Osage Indian, saying, “Payne passed for white when we went into the restaurant.” There was big laughter from Jess and David but I cringed inside because there was a sobering truth that I was both Indian and white and I did, not only pass for white, but get mistaken for white when I wanted to be close to my Indian cousins and friends. My whiteness kept me out of the Indian culture that was my grandmother’s and that I wanted to be a part of. These things work both ways. I learned, that if I have to preface what I am going to tell Larry with, “I hope this doesn’t offend you,” I should not say it because that in itself is offensive and it is beneath me as the person I want to be, that I try to be and sometimes I fail to be. I try to be a better person than I was growing up because I was ignorant of feelings of many others. I met a woman from the civil rights movement, she being then a Black Panther, and she said she hated white people. I was stunned and then she said, “Can you imagine how I felt when I had my first half white grandchild?” She told us she loved that child and all that came later. Again, I saw through a black person’s eyes, this time a woman and one who had been vocal in her disgust for white Americans. How we live is a choice. How we are born is not. I was born with my racial mix, slight as it is. And I can’t change it. It also makes me who I am, just as my friend Larry’s does. Larry told me once that every morning he saw a black face in his mirror. All he meant was that he knows he is a black man and no one needs to tell him or remind him. Sometimes he has spoken against bad behavior of another black man and our managers would respond to him in wide agreement, seeming to say, “You’re one of us Larry. Yeah, right on!” He told me, “I’m not.” He gets treated differently, even in the positive sense because of his color. He is a fine man, filled with character and I’ve seen him help others in so many ways. When my friend Dennis lost his daughter to a horrible car accident, I called Larry and asked if I could stay with him so I could attend the service and help Dennis. “Come on,” he said, “We've got room for you.” I spent three days in their Houston home as a guest. I shared my ship and quarters with black sailors but never in their home. I had the courage to ask and he had the graciousness to offer. Maybe I don't see, not as much as I believe I do, but at least I begin to see.
Stephen
