The Invisible Journey
A young boy’s veil is lifted
July 3, 2020
A four year old boy is happily cuddling on his Mother’s lap as his Father drives, seemingly forever, on their cross-country road trip. They are on their way from the Northeast to visit family in the Deep South. The only sound is the hum of a large 1960s V8 engine. Suddenly, it was very bright in the car, with flashing colorful lights, with the strange sound of a screeching siren getting louder. With one hand, the Father grabs the boy’s shirt at the chest, looks him deep in the eyes and says, with a seriousness that haunts the boy half a century later, “If you move or make a sound, we will all die.” My Father then quickly slides me over the front seat down to the floor in back. My Mother stretches me out as flat as possible and slides a back seat blanket over me, covering me completely.
A car having license plates from the Northeast, particularly like our plates from New York, was enough to get you in big trouble with the police in the still Jim Crow South. Some parts of the South had evolved much slower than others. In the 1960’s, police in the South were in some cases, original members of KKK chapters. The scars of the South’s civil war loss were still fresh enough to taste, and could easily stir a hatred of Northerners. Sadly, based on the present nationwide confederate insignia issues, there’s still a wound that hasn’t healed.
Old cars did not have front-wheel drive. Instead, they had a very large hump in the middle of the floor in the rear to accommodate a long round axle that spun fast to power the rear wheels. The axle and the back seat floor got lava hot. From my desperate positioning on the back seat floor, I heard a hard tapping sound on the window — and a man’s voice.
I don’t recall the man’s exact words, but I remember the strangeness of my Mother’s answer to the question, “Everything alright here?” She said, “I’m just hitch-hiking to Florida and he gave me a ride.” Her lie meant something was very wrong. I tried to press myself flat against the scorching hot hump, conforming to it. I was trying my best not to flinch, breathing small invisible breaths. Everything in me wanted to peel my chest away from the heat and the terrible smell of the melting vinyl mat under me. The scent of smoldering plastic, still transports me right now, back to that place.
After all the back and forth conversations, we drove away. My Mother tore away the blanket and yanked me into the front seat. I don’t recall the actual feeling itself, but rather the sense of relief that I could breathe. In a recent Zoom conversation with my Mother, to make sure that I was remembering evrything correctly, she hung her head and quietly recounted me saying “Did I do good hiding Daddy?” I asked what happened and was given an answer that would normally be reserved for children a few years older. There are times when, ready or not, frank statements about the world must be fed to black and brown children. “Mommy and Daddy aren’t allowed to be married here. Mommy had to lie to that policeman to keep us safe.”
My Mother was white, and my Father, black. Depending on the state we were in, their marriage could’ve been illegal. Very illegal — to the point where police could easily become judge, jury, and executioner with impunity. The inherent message to black and brown children, almost from birth, is that the cops aren’t always the good guys. You can’t always be honest with them.
In that few minutes, the safety and security of my Mother’s lap gave way to an insecure, dark landscape, capable of dangerous acts done by people who used to embody safety. This is one of my earliest memories. Raw and visceral. Almost every black child can tell you their version of that story. A verbal warning by family on how to navigate the interaction between your community, and the police.
But the moral here is don’t be scared of these times. Instead, do what you can to make progress toward equality. Be active to bring about change in whatever small way possible. Don’t uncomfortably laugh off a comment by a friend that shows a prejudice you don’t really believe in. If you sit idly by, you are actively doing nothing to help humanity evolve into something better? A point worth pondering.
Take this extraordinary time to make your family and friends proud of you. Respect and support our youth’s evolving world view. Embody strength and commitment. Maybe give them the memory of you laying on the floor, coloring a #BLM poster with them, stapling it to a stick, and marching, shoulder to shoulder. Or at least holding it while they hammer it into the front lawn.
That’s a forever memory. They won’t remember you shaking your head at the TV. Don’t do nothing. Teach our kids, our friends and neighbors, what it is like to live in a true democracy.
Stand up and do… something.
Addendum: The American flag mounted to my house was twisted up this morning. I think I’ve continued to fly it all these years with a little pride, but a lot more hope. As I unfurled it on this 4th of July, let me just say that I am extremely hopeful and proud of all people standing up and saying ENOUGH. I feel much better about flying our flag today — and into our future.
