Illuminating the past

In understanding how a person came to be, I have found that it usually helps to know where they came from and how they grew up.  I have always felt that I grew up in a home of oddness.  And that was a good thing.

As children, I think we all knew we were different from our neighbors.   The most obvious difference was that we were Catholics in a sea of colloquial Protestants.  Our worshipping cultures separated us….we had a culture filled with large families, fine fabrics, and an appreciation for all things associated with royalty.  We didn’t live in a small house in the middle of a blue collar, plant working area.  We lived in the magical, imaginary land of our ancestors, people of entitlement rich with ritualistic tradition.  Our neighbors lived simply.  Happy with half as many children, thanking God for that good paying plant work that was made available upon high school graduation, and knowing that they lived in a small but clean house (even if it was next to that big family who really didn’t have a clue as to where they were). 

An even more dramatic difference came due to the fact that both of my parents are university graduates (Daddy even did some post graduate work…well, so did Momma in a way, because trust me, she never stopped studying).  Perhaps that might not sound like a big deal, but back then and in that neighborhood, it was like revealing that they could both glow in the dark.  They are both voracious readers.  (This is also true of most of my siblings.  I did not naturally love to read.  I began reading primarily because it was the only acceptable reason to shirk doing your jobs.   But, well, once a habit is formed….) Books were all over our house, marked with the library due date slips, lying open when temporarily abandoned  in haste and stacked up waiting for their turn to be devoured with eager eyes and inquisitive imaginations. When I would visit kids in the neighborhood, I never saw any books except the current year’s school books.  Daddy’s education lead him straight into a management position at a chemical plant.  This was further delineating because our neighbors were all unionized plant workers. One strike was all it took for me to have the difference seared into my mind. Even the whiteness of our shirts set us apart.  I remember a lady asking me why our clothes were so bright.  I rushed to our laundry room to see if we were able to afford Tide, only to finally figure out that it was just another college trick…Momma was separating the dirty clothes according to color rather than piling them all in.

But those are just the everyday, easy to figure out things.  The thing that really separated us from everyone else was my parent’s principles and their unwavering displaying of them.  I knew of Red Skelton, but only because of few skits involving Gertrude and Heathcliff.  As soon as Mr. Skelton began his Willie Lump Lump or Cauliflower McPugg skits, the television was turned off.  Alcohol abuse or the ridiculing of a person with a brain injury was never tolerated in our home. (Note that the television was turned OFF.  If you are going to make a dramatic statement to your children, do not attempt to mask your statement with confusion that perhaps you just wanted to check out the only other channel received. Turn OFF the ignorant filth and let them know why.) Same thing went for The Honeymooners.  Jackie Gleason was a cruel sexist who made his best friend laugh by threatening to harm his wife.

 My parents never “cussed”.  While that was not unusual for a woman back then, it was very unusual for a man (especially for a man raising so many children with no air conditioning).  The most Daddy ever uttered was an occasional “dadburnit”.  Not so with the neighbors.  One of my brother’s favorite imitations was that of the man next door and his colorful admonishing to pick up the dog’s excrement.  The funny thing is that my parents were not worried about the power or ugliness of the words themselves.  What disturbed them is that there could be a person of intellect who did not possess the vocabulary to express themselves more creatively. 

There are many, many things that set us apart.  But everything paled in comparison to how my parents handled the issue of civil rights in the early sixties.  My parents were friends with a colored priest. (OK, folks, don’t start in on me about the use of the word “colored”.  That was the respected and socially correct way back then of describing what was later known as “black” and then “African American”.)  The “n” word was NEVER used in our house or tolerated in our company.  My parents wouldn’t hesitate to ask another adult to refrain from its use and explain to a full grown person that the word is despicable and hurtful.  No “colored” jokes would ever survive being uttered without a stony stare and a heated launching of “how would you like it if” comparisons.

And the lesson did not stop with just talk.  “Colored” people were invited to our home to eat with us.  We attended a colored Catholic church (my brothers were the only white altar boys).  I attended a colored vacation Bible school.  My sister was baptized in a colored Catholic church, by our friend the colored priest with an all colored choir singing in the background.  It was emphasized that all people were the same in God’s eyes and by golly; they were going to be the same in ours.  I remembered Daddy illustrating his convictions one day at Grandberry’s ice cream shop.  After the sugary, thirst inducing sweets were consumed, right in front of God and everybody, he walked us right over to the water fountain marked “colored” and started us off by taking a big gulp of the segregated water. 

Yes, my parents had principles and weren’t afraid to use them.  As a parent and grandparent myself now, my wish is that I display and teach what I believe goodness to be.  At the very least, I hope I made at least one person, perhaps for just one split second, wonder if I could glow in the dark.