Once upon a time, over half a century ago, I was a guileless, color-blind, free from all prejudices, white child with a magnificent black-skinned doll.
My parents and I lived in an apartment complex in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. Both sides of my family have Scandinavian roots, primarily Norwegian, and in those days the “Norsk” ghetto in Brooklyn was a thriving part of the borough. My introduction, as a preschooler, to prejudice involved the antipathy, if not hatred, Norwegians expressed toward Swedes, the bordering country to the east from which Norway gained independence in 1905, and the country that granted German forces access to Norway during both World Wars.
My parents’ Norwegian friends were, with few exceptions—my father one of them—Brooklyn Dodger fans. My Dad was a Yankee fan, and took as much pride in being a “Bronx Bomber” fan as he did in not being a fan of “Dem Bums” from Flatbush. Spirited, fun-loving exchanges often resounded within the walls whenever social gatherings occurred. Mentioning the Yankees was akin to bringing up anything Swedish without incurring the humorless wrath of Norwegians toward Swedes! I was drawn out by the playful energy of their social group. I didn’t understand the conversations, but I was fascinated by the people’s animated gestures and laughter. Friends of my parents would often come to wherever I nibbled on a treat, or corral me as I romped around the room, and suggested I looked like a true-blue Brooklyn Dodger, a comment my father greeted with Bronx-like distain then dismissed as wishful thinking. I was his son, and therefore a Yankee, born to cheer the pin-stripe-wearing Bronx Bombers.
When I was four we moved thirty miles north to Hastings-on-Hudson, a small river town in Westchester County where my parents had purchased their first home. In addition to acquainting themselves with their new suburban community they maintained the Brooklyn connection by hosting occasional Saturday night potlucks and waffle dinners with church friends from the city. Familiar faces were welcome as I adapted to new surroundings and the anticipated arrival of a sibling.
It was on one of those nights that I was “introduced” to Jackie Robinson. Else and Rachael Helgestad, twins who loved getting my father’s goat about his Yankee allegiance, smuggled a Jackie Robinson doll, #42 in full Dodger uniform, into my bedroom where I lay sleeping.
Awakened by their giggling and the doll’s unexpected presence at my head, I sat up, and though groggy, grabbed the doll’s shirt and walked through the lighted hallway and downstairs into the room full of guests. My father’s jaw dropped when he saw the “Jackie doll” and the pleasure on my face. Someone stated what everyone, but me, knew—that number 42 was the first Negro to play in the major leagues. His color didn’t matter to me, though I was curious. What did matter was that he looked every bit the baseball player I’d begun dreaming of becoming when “I was big.”
I had childhood asthma, and on nights when my breathing was too labored to lie down I’d be propped up against the headboard, supported by pillows with a picture book and “Jackie” to keep me company. On the nightstand next to me a steam vaporizer increased the humidity in the bedroom to ease my breathing.
One night ,while tucking me in, my mother knocked into the vaporizer spilling scalding water on my right leg. Our neighbor, Gert, a nurse who’d been having coffee with her in the kitchen heard my mother scream and came upstairs. The two of them carried me into the bathroom to minister to the burn, which meant peeling off my pajama bottoms including several patches of skin. I don’t remember crying, but I do recall my skin’s discoloration, a pinkish color, in stark contrast to the black-skinned Jackie Robinson doll I clutched to my chest.
During subsequent years my loving parents, in their brokenness, communicated in subtle ways that Jews were not to be trusted, the Pope and Catholics wanted to eliminate Protestants, and that Negroes and other people of color were indolent and lazy, preferring to be on welfare than to work. During these pre-teen years their “whispered,” behind closed doors prejudice muted the voices of my teachers and face-to-face experiences at school where a message of tolerance and acceptance was extolled.
I imagine that prejudice gets passed down from generation to generation in many families, including my own. Lately, I’ve wrestled with those thoughts and feelings, often reflecting back to the black doll that gave me comfort while gasping for breath, and over time the prejudicial thoughts and feelings dissipated, replaced by those of tolerance and acceptance.
I recall my introduction to Shylock’s words in The Merchant of Venice: “Hath not a Jew (Catholics, African Americans, Latinos, Asians, and women, etc.) hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?” These words of Shakespeare, a man clearly ahead of his time, helped me further break the generational cycle of racist thought and fear with which I’d been raised.
Finding the courage to unlearn the erroneous lessons taught by those I loved, and who loved me, has been a lifelong journey—one whose beginnings involved #42.
Once upon a time a guileless, colorblind little white boy snuggled with a black-skinned doll. As we move into Advent and this holiday season, I am grateful to those who got my father’s goat and gave me that wonderful black doll, but also for my parents’ love. And my Christmas wish is for a world of increasing tolerance and acceptance.
by
Another well-written, thoughtful post, delving deep into your own personal experiences and exploring how children “learn what they live,” while also growing up and out of early childhood lessons which may have been taught by loving, well-intentioned, however un-enlightened, flawed parents. Your descriptions of your early memories are rich with details of both external circumstances and internal feelings, drawing us in as readers to your life and reflections. Thank you for sharing your journey with us. Write on, mon ami.
Colette,
Thank you. Though we are all flawed, albeit in varying degrees, it is the ones among us–parents or not–who can tolerate if not embrace that fact and then move into creating a better world. So difficult to do. Sometimes what I think is enlightenment is just another seductive way of holding on to “masked” flaws, and I often get that right away, but more often it takes time, more time, and then some more. I’m hoping I don’t run out of time–there’s so much to learn.
Roger
Very good Doc. As we et older we seem to understand our parents good and bd points better. I am sure it comes through the maturing process and our life experiences.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Gary. Wisdom and understanding come with age, although neither occur often enough for my liking!
Roger
Your memories remind me of my own. As a child I lived in Texas, with loudly opinionated and prejudiced southerners. I often heard disparaging jokes about “the blackies” . I remember being embarrassed that I was the priveledged one as I drank from “whites only” water fountains in the big stores. I wondered what disease I could catch if I drank from their fountain. I’d see signs for “colored” on bathroom doors. I wondered if black people were inherently diseased and was that why we couldn’t use the same bathroom stalls. My Christian parents didn’t express feeling appalled, like I felt. They wouldn’t discuss it. My young soul soaked in the attitude of their religious friends who called black people hateful names and spoke so condescendingly of their lives. I felt ashamed that Christians who believed in Jesus’ teachings talked and lived like that. Eventually I lost my trust in those grown up,religious people… I realized adults could be wrong. Your words beautifully describe the events and people that touched our young hearts.
Laney,
I appreciate your candor in this reflection on your own childhood experience. Loving “good” people can commit to destructive ways of being. Perhaps racist thought and behavior was more overt in some states than others, but no less mean, hurtful, and close-minded than when people harbor racist thought behind closed doors. It is a sad happening when children lose faith and trust in the adults who teach and show us the way into adulthood. I wonder where the biases and prejudices are in our generation–the ones we fail to catch in much the same way our parents did in theirs?
Thanks, Laney
Roger
Mr Noble, my third grade teacher, stood over my desk pointing at my artwork. His black hand almost touching mine. His words encouraging me to do more good work. It was then that I saw the difference in his skin next to mine. That summer he sent me a post card from Cincinnati wishing me well. He never returned to our school and I don’t know where his journey took him, but I never forgot his kind words, his post from afar, or the fact that his skin was different than mine. It was then that I learned that color is only skin deep, character goes to the bone.
Bette
Bette,
Thank you for reading the post, and for this powerful reflection. Both you and Mr. Noble demonstrated a willingness to resist “taking the easy way.” How often we are tempted, and yield to the easier choice. I imagine others were impacted by his offering kind words of encouragement just as you have done so in your life. He too may have remembered the third grader whose artwork merited recognition, a young artist with a future, a journey he helped you take–and look what happened!
Cheers to finding character,
Roger
An important reminder. Inclusion is not simply a politically correct position. It is a much repeated Biblical principle.”…every nation, tribe, people and nation…” is but one of many references to the intended community of all people. Humans separate and prejudge. God is no respecter of person. Thanks for the reminder to be nice on purpose toward all people.
Alan,
I like the way you differentiate between PC and our soul’s embrace of the other regardless of “nation, tribe, and people.” We, as you write, are a community of all people. I’m glad Jackie Robinson found and awakened this boy.
Roger