Thoughts inspired by “Stomp The Yard”

Stomp The Yard was in the Netflix queue and finally showed up last week. I enjoyed it immensely. Of course, it took me back in some ways.

I had the opportunity to attend an HBCU, but the option was introduced to me far too early for me to make a rational decision. My father’s first military station as a married man was in Anniston, Alabama. There, they were introduced to James “Pappy” Dunn, an early local mover and shaker when it came to civil rights. They stayed in touch over the years, and one summer we all trundled down to visit after my father had retired from the military. I couldn’t have been any more than 13 or 14 at the time. Pappy was proud to show us his city, which had become an entity much different than my parents had experienced in the very early 60’s. I remember that when he and his wife would take us out to dinner, Pappy was given the star turn, he had to force money on the servers and cashiers because they would almost always simply refuse his attempts to pay. Both white and black folk would wave him off saying, “Now, Pappy, you know better. Your money’s no good here, you’ve done too much for us already. And the manager will have my head on a platter if he finds out I made you pay!” So he’d just tip exorbitantly and stuff collection jars that were put out to raise money for whatever the latest need was, be it band uniforms, muscular dystrophy or what have you.

Anniston on the whole did not impress my teenage self. All I saw was miles and miles of red clay hills that simply cried out to me with the blood of the beaten. I didn’t know it until decades later that I actually am sensitive to the auras of past hurts, but that’s a story for another time. All I knew was that the place was just…loud and painful to me. But then Pappy took us down the road to Talledega College. Summer session was in full swing and I remember the place being alive with color and life. He and probably the president or someone else high up on the academic food chain gave us the tour and did their best to encourage me to do the family proud by attending TC when I was ready. In all honesty, I probably easily would have attained a full ride just from the connections alone. They even introduced me to the music professor who put me through my vocal paces on the spot and pronounced me worthy.

But I wasn’t interested. In a way, my parents had killed any desire I might have had to go to an HBCU because they tried to do right by their children in the way we were brought up. First on military bases, then buying a house in a lily-white neighborhood. I had never had the experience of existing solely among black people. Never. And it certainly didn’t occur to me at that age that it might be a good thing to do so. It scared the bejeesus out of me, truth be told. I couldn’t relate. Nothing made sense and I was afraid that I’d be rejected out of hand once they knew that I wasn’t…well…really black. Not black like them, anyway. Of course it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be the only one, but when you’re that age and had been through it alone as I had, you never thought there was anyone else like you. In their own way, my folks had tried to encourage me to take part, as it were.

For my 13th birthday, my mother encouraged me to invite friends over for a sleepover party. Two girls from church and two from school came over. In retrospect, I know now that it was a disaster in the making. None of the four had ever been to my parents’ house before and while it wasn’t such a shock for the church girls, it was definitely a mind and eye-boggling experience for my acquaintances from school. We lived in a middle-middle class neighborhood of mostly ranch homes built in the late sixties-early seventies with all the ensuing trappings. Both my parents worked; my dad, two jobs. We weren’t wealthy by any means, but we were comfortable. On the other hand, my two schoolmates were from the projects. Literally. Which didn’t make any difference to me then, in part because I didn’t really understand what that meant. Their whole demeanor changed upon sight of the house. The sassy, mouthy laughing girls I knew turned solemn and polite, refusing just about everything they were offered. Word spread immediately upon their return to school that I was “stuck-up” and “rich and spoiled”. Shortly thereafter, my new winter coat that my dad had bought for me on sale and with his employee discount at Sears was stolen from my secured locker. I hid that fact from my parents for weeks before they noticed because I just didn’t want anymore trouble. Once my mother mused, “Why don’t you have those nice girls over again?” I just stared at her for a moment then muttered something non-committal and changed the subject.

Ironically, I ended up on the complete opposite end of the spectrum when I went to college. I spent three semesters in the hills of Virginia before I couldn’t take being the only female freshman and then sophomore of color anymore and transferred back to the city.

It still took some time for me to figure out who I actually was. Some days I still don’t know.

~ by missterioso on October 25, 2007.