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Reflections February 2013

Jottings

Black History Month Sparks Some Sad Memories

By Millie Moss

My editor asked me if I would write a page two story on the 25th anniversary of the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. My being born and raised in the south, she thought I was the one to write the story.

Way back in 1993, I was writing features and lifestyle section covers for The Advocate, a Gannett daily in Newark, Ohio. I loved doing the section covers, because I took the photos and chose my own material. We also had a timely feature at the top of page two, which I seldom wrote, because my interest and talent lay in lifestyle pages. But one day in late winter of that year, my editor asked me if I would write a page two story on the 25th anniversary of the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. My being born and raised in the south, she thought I was the one to write the story.

I didn’t feel good or even confident about it. But I wrote the story and gave it to my editor. The next morning she came over to my desk and said, “There’s a problem with this story.”

“Like what,” I asked.

“You’ve written 670 words and haven’t said anything,” she said, frowning at me. It was the first time she had ever been critical of my work. I didn’t know what to say.

“I thought you would have strong feelings about it,” one way or the other.

“Well...” I started

“Oh, no,” she said, staring at me. “Tell me you’re not one of those southerners who takes the whole black thing on your own shoulders.”

“No, not slavery,” I said, “but there was so much abuse. It was horrible. I don’t know why it wasn’t all over by the time I came along, but I saw so many injustices when I was a child. I can’t help it. I do feel guilty about it, I guess just because I’m white.”

“Start over,” she said and walked away.

I decided to interview the black leaders in central Ohio, asking them what difference, if any, would it have made if MLK had lived. The answers were virtually identical. I quickly wrote the story and turned it in. When it was published it bore my byline, but it was mostly my editor’s story.

I wanted her to understand and to help myself understand, so I invited her to lunch and told her a couple of stories about experiences I had that shaped my opinions:

When I was young, boxing was very popular, particularly heavyweight boxing. My favorite was Joe Louis. I thought he was the greatest fighter in the world. On this night he was to fight Billy Conn. My grandparents were also boxing fans. They moved their chairs closer to the big floor- model radio. I sat on the floor with my ear on the scratchy speaker cover. I was very excited.

It was a fight for the ages. First, Louis would pound Conn and the count would get to eight or nine. In five minutes it would be the other way around. I was quite vocal in my support of “The Brown Bomber.” At one point I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. It was my grandmother.

“Mildred Ann,” she said. “We want Billy Conn to win.”

“Why,” I asked.

“Because Billy Conn is white, and he has a family to support.”

“Joe Louis has a family to support, too,” I argued.

“It doesn’t matter,” said my grandfather. “Billy Conn is white.”

I didn’t say another word. But when Joe won the fight, I went to my room, and celebrated silently.

I wasn’t sure about the date of the fight when I started writing this story, so I looked it up. I was 4 years old.

On another time, my mother and I were riding the bus to downtown. All the seats were filled and the aisles were packed. Because the black people sat in the back of the bus, the driver opened the front door to take their fare and then they went back outside and were admitted in the back door.

On this particular ride, the driver sent an old black man to the rear of the bus from the front of the bus. He had to weave his way through the crowd as the driver yelled at him, “Do you like rubbing up against all those white people, N-word?”

I was horrified. I started to cry, and when he reached my seat, I stood up. Mother grabbed me and told me to be still.

I knew it was wrong from the very beginning. I have no idea where it came from. As I got older, my father and I had many arguments. He, too, was wrong. Mother wound up crying most of the time, begging us to stop. I was determined to make him understand, but I finally gave up for Mother’s sake.

So, why couldn’t I write a good story about Martin Luther King, Jr. back in 1993?

It was just too much and to this day it still hurts. I can’t express how awful it was.

Yes, I do feel responsible. I can’t help it.

 

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