by Ernie McCray
Clicking through
a civil and human rights
kind of website
my eyes came across
a very familiar sight,
images of “Colored Only””
and “White Only”
water fountain signs
which immediately reminded me of
when my mother and I
would travel down below
the Mason and Dixon line
and, how, every time,
I would stand next to the fountain
that was assigned to me
and glare at the one that was off limits to me
and then I would turn my head quickly and sharply
in another direction,
remembering, suddenly,
“that Black folks were forbidden
to stare at folks who were White,
but, hey, if the truth be told, I wasn’t staring at them.
Screw them.
I mean, as far as I was concerned
as a child as caught up in my innocence
as they were entangled in their racism,
they could have just jumped in the Mississippi River
and drowned themselves
and I would have waved my hands in the air
like I just didn’t care
because what had captured the attention
of this little Negro was
the heavy flow
of thirst-quenching H2O
coming out of their water fountain’s hole,
after my mother and I
had been reduced to practically”
French kissing our fountain
to get a drink,
sucking drizzling water
like thieves siphoning gas.
But, oh well, that’s the way it was.
Unable to put up a fuss
we’d get back to the back of the
greyhound bus
and reminisce about our visit with Uncle Bud,
my mother glowing from head to toe from just having been there
to enjoy all the delicious food and love
that was bestowed upon us,
and me probably going on and on about something like
how much fun I had playing with
my cousins and some hogs
in the mud,
and milking the cows
and how much I hated the outhouse.
That makes those journeys to my family’s roots
fond memories that place a smile on my face.
But I was always eager to get back home|
where Jim Crow
wasn’t so all up in a little brotha’s face.
My Texas cousins stopped taking me with them when they went downtown during my visits with them; reason being, I stubbornly refused to drink “Colored” water. I boldly. (and brazenly) disregarded the discriminatory signs.
I grew up in a Jim Crow Arizona town, but water fountains were not segregated. The concept just never sunk in. . .
Shirley, thanks so much for helping us to understand what it was like back then; we cannot forget – and we will not go backwards.
Sadly, I have lived through those despicable times in American history where I witnessed African American people restricted to the back of our city buses. And I am truly sorry to say I remember separate bathrooms in Downtown San Diego. As a young man in my 20s, I distinctly recall Redlined neighborhoods on real estate office maps showing which were restricted by race and religious categories. And you know what? I thought all that was behind me. But quite honestly, I fear for our future.
Ernie,
I’ve been driving around Tucson & Davis-Monthan this weekend looking for Ernie spirit.