When I was six-years-old, in 1969, my father’s job
transferred us to Florida . We
spent a couple of years there. We lived in a town named Winter
Haven that was the home of a big tourist attraction called
Cypress Gardens ,
and that billed itself as “The Water-Skiing Capital of the World.” At that time it probably was.
The cost of living in central Florida
in those days was considerably less than Chicago ,
and it hadn’t been overly developed so my parents were able to build their
dream house. It was situated in a new
sub-division near a chain of lakes, and it backed up to a swamp on one side and
a cow pasture on the other. Most of our
neighbors, which were few, either worked with my father or were retired people.
During those days, my sister, Melissa, had a rabbit that
lived in a hutch out in the backyard near the combination shed/tree fort, all
of which my father built. The rabbit’s
name was Floppy. It was a big old white
one that when we let it into the house would chase our dog, a kind of odd pit
bull mutt, named Nibby, all around. She
was a lot of fun. The problem with Floppy was that she always found a way to
get out of her hutch, and when she did, she went into Mr. Talbot’s garden.
Mr. Talbot was not a nice man. He lived alone; he was a widower. Most of the
other people on the two blocks that comprised our neighborhood at that time let
kids pretty much run wild through their yards, steal water from their hoses,
and would invite us in for things they had baked. They were like second grandparents. Mr. Talbot was not like that. All he did was scowl and work in his
vegetable garden.
One day when Floppy got out Melissa and I went to look for
her. We went into Mr. Talbot’s garden
and found her there nibbling on his lettuce.
We tried to grab her and get out before he saw us but no such luck. As we tried to leave the garden he was
standing there in his Bermuda shorts, his big belly hanging out of his white
undershirt. He was smoking a cigar. His
arms were crossed and he looked very angry. He said to Melissa, who was holding Floppy,
“The next time that rabbit gets into my garden, I’m turning it into soup. Get
on, now.” We ran home as fast as we could and
took Floppy into the house. When my
father got home he did everything he could to patch up the rabbit hutch so
Floppy wouldn’t get away again.
The culture in Florida
was very different from any I had ever experienced. The most striking difference was school. At our elementary school they started the day
with outside flag assembly and then bible stories. They didn’t like you to be left-handed, which
I was. I’m right-handed now, though they couldn’t erase all of it. I still do a
lot left-handed. When you got in trouble
you went to the principal’s office to get paddled.
What was most strange to me was that it was the first time I
went to school with people that were a different color than me. It didn’t bother me. They were just kids in my class who I liked.and I became friends
with. There were two boys I liked very much: one who snapped his fingers in the air when he wanted to answer
a question, and one who I helped with his reading. What did confuse me was why they went into different bathrooms from us, and rode on a different
bus. Aside from paddling, if you got detention, you had to ride on the black kids’ bus after school. I didn’t see how that was much of a
punishment because that meant I got to ride home with my friends, but apparently down there at that time they thought it was.
One day when we were walking to our bus stop, we encountered
some of the construction workers who were building more homes to grow our sub-division.
They said “Good Morning" and I said, “Good morning,” back. A little girl named, Val, who I thought was a
conceited little snob, pulled my arm and took me across the street. I said to her, “Why are you pulling
me?” She looked at me like I was an
idiot. “Didn’t your mama tell you not to talk to blackbirds?” I’d never heard that expression before.
One day, not long after that, my mother was in the kitchen
of our house eating a sandwich when she started to choke. She ran out into the yard to seek help.
Fortunately, one of the construction guys was walking by and he helped
her. Some of the other neighbors heard
the commotion and came out to help too.
That night when my father got home he went down to where the
construction men went to wait for trucks that came to take them home. He said thank you to the man who had helped
my mother and he shook his hand.
A few days later, after school, my mother took us to the
Stop-n-Go to get frozen slushies. While we were in the store we ran into Mr.
Derwin. Mr. Derwin lived in a somewhat
ramshackle house with a bunch of kids and grandchildren that he let run in the
sprinklers in their underwear. He worked in the orange orchards that were also
near our house. The other thing I
remember about Mr. Derwin’s house is that he had these little statues of black
jockeys and doormen in his front yard.
As we were paying for our drinks Mr. Derwin came up to may
mother and said, “You’re damned lucky, Mrs. Sharpe.” My mother replied, “Yes, I’m glad that man
was there to help me.” Mr. Derwin said,
“That’s not what I meant. I meant you’re
damned lucky that blackbird didn’t do something else. I don’t care what kind of trouble she’s in, I
wouldn’t want some blackbird to put his hands on my wife.”
You could tell my mother was getting angry. She said to my
sister, “Melissa, take the kids to the car.”
Melissa did but I could still see my mother through the plate glass
window of the store. I could see her yelling at Mr. Derwin and poking him in
the chest. When she came out and drove
us home she was still steaming. When we
pulled into the driveway she put her head on the steering wheel and started to
cry. She told Melissa to watch us and
went upstairs to lie down for a bit.
When my father got home from work, it was late. We’d had our dinner and baths by then, and
were getting ready to go to bed. He went upstairs. He talked to my mother a bit
and then came down the stairs very quickly and went into the garage. I tried to follow him but he was moving
fast. By the time I got into the garage,
all I saw was him throwing a bat into the back of his little convertible and then
driving off.
At some point in the night I woke and I saw flashing lights
outside the house. I went to window and
saw my father leaning through the window of a police car. Eventually my father stood up, gave the
officer a wave, and walked back into the garage.
I went down to the garage. My father was in white jeans,
which he always wore, working on buffing his car. When he saw me, he said, “Why are you up,
Tom?” I said, “I saw the police
lights.” He smiled, “Don’t worry about
that. It’s all okay.” I said, “Does this have to do with what Mr.
Derwin said to Mom about the blackbird?”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at me with fire in his
eyes. He stood up. “What did you just
say?” I repeated the question. He put down his drill and he said, “I’m only going
to say this once. We do not use that word in this house and if I hear you say
it again I will wash your mouth out with soap. You know how that feels. Now get
your butt back in bed.” I have never
used the expression again.
We never saw much of Mr. Derwin again, because when he would
see us he would cross the street or turn the other way. There was a lot “buzz” in the
neighborhood. There was a retired couple
up the street that Melissa and I liked a lot, the Bells. Melissa would help Mrs. Bell with her baking
and I would help Mr. Bell with whatever he was doing around the house. Our reward was we got to surreptitiously watch
“Dark Shadows,” which was not allowed at home.
During that time, when other neighbors would come by, Mrs. Bell would
step into another room and there was a lot of whispering.
Not long after the incident with Mr. Derwin, Floppy got out
again, and she went to Mr. Talbot’s house.
Melissa and I, again, went looking for her. As we were walking down the road (they didn’t
have sidewalks there) we saw Mr. Talbot on his front porch in a chair, smoking
a cigar, and holding a white object. As
we approached he called out, “Melissa, I got your bunny.” I thought Melissa was
going to burst into tears. We walked up the driveway. Melissa, sniffling now, said, “Mr. Talbot can
I please have my rabbit back?’ Mr.
Talbot stood up and said, “Come get her.”
Melissa ran up, took Floppy and held her to her chest for a moment, and
then ran home. I turned to leave too and Mr. Talbot said, “Son, tell your
father I am going to come visit him on Saturday.” I nervously asked,
“Why?” He said “Because I think he’s a
good man and I want to have a conversation with him. I also think I can give him some ideas on how
to fix a rabbit hutch.” We really never
had trouble with Mr. Talbot after he came to visit my father that weekend.
The people at that time in Florida, and where we lived, did not use the word, “blackbird.” It is just a euphemism, because I cannot
bear the word they did use and the tone of their voice when they used it. I understand that rappers and others have
co-opted the word and some of the reasons why. That is their prerogative, but I
still wince whenever I hear it. I don't like that word or several others that are thrown around to describe someone who is different from you. Words that I have chosen not to ever use. Words that imply you are better than someone else...words that hurt.
At one of our jazz dinners after I was an adult, I asked my
dad what happened at Derwin’s house that night.
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “We had a discussion about why I
disagreed with his opinions on certain things and why he should never approach
or talk to my wife or my children ever again.”
I then asked him, “Why did you take the bat?” He just smiled wryly and said, “Well, I’ll
put it this way. When I left Mr. Derwin’s that night he didn’t have any jockey statues
in his lawn anymore. I had to pay for
that, but it was worth it to do something that I felt was right, just, and
fair. Sometimes your conscience makes
you do crazy things. I don’t advocate violence, but sometimes you need to make
a point. Sometimes you regret the things you do and sometimes you relish them.
That night is not one I am ashamed of.”
My father did a lot of things in his life where he followed his conscience and did what he believed was right, just, and fair, and sometimes it cost him. He lost friends, roles, money, and other things. He did it anyway. I don't think he ever regretted that that was how he lived his life and how he treated all people. It is how I have tried to live my life and what I hope we've taught our children well. Based on the way they live their lives, I think we have.
My father did a lot of things in his life where he followed his conscience and did what he believed was right, just, and fair, and sometimes it cost him. He lost friends, roles, money, and other things. He did it anyway. I don't think he ever regretted that that was how he lived his life and how he treated all people. It is how I have tried to live my life and what I hope we've taught our children well. Based on the way they live their lives, I think we have.
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