FROM OHIO TO CALIFORNIA

It was 1965. The Civil Rights movement was in its prime, but it didn’t touch me until the memorable journey I took from Columbus, Ohio to California.

After a year of my graduate school at Ohio State University, I wanted to go home for summer vacation. A teaching assistant’s salary wouldn’t allow me to fly, and I have decided to look for a ride. Soon after, I saw a note on the announcement board at the university saying that two graduated students were moving to California and would take a rider. I called and heard the male voice saying “hello.” I explained the reason of my call, but instead of the reply, there was a silence. After a long pause, I heard, “But I’m black.” I said, “So, what?” He then said, “Are you sure you want to go with us?” “But of course,” I replied. “All right, we’ll take you.”

George picked me up early in the morning, and we started out toward Kentucky to pick up his friend Mike. I sat next to George. After a while George said, “Look at them! Look how they are looking at us!” I was surprised to hear that and asked him who were looking at us. I told him that he was imagining things. However, I did notice that people in the passing cars were all turning their heads towards us.

We came to a small town that was Mike’s home. George told me to wait and disappeared into one of the small houses. I could have sworn that no white person had ever stepped in that place. It was a scene from old American movies. I stood by the car looking at a little house with a porch in front of me. An old black woman was rocking on a porch swing. She looked at me without saying anything. I can imagine now that my face must have had an expression of surprise and fascination at the same time.

In a short while, an old man came from behind and started telling me something. My spoken English was not very good at that time, and I could not understand the dialect of the man. Finally, I caught a word “hut.” It was similar to Russian “hahta,” a peasant house, and I understood that the man invited me to his house. He was Mike’s father. The front door was open and the linoleum at the entrance was old and torn in places. There were three or four beautiful puppies playing by the threshold. I stepped over them and followed the father directly to a big kitchen with a huge long table in the middle. I was introduced to Mike’s mother, a stout southern black woman who seemed to come right out of some old Hollywood movie. She was frying “Kentucky fried” chicken for our journey. She greeted me with a big smile. I thought what a pleasant and hospitable people they were.

Now there were the three of us: two tall slender black Americans and a Russian immigrant who was born in China and came to the U.S. via Brazil. I had already experienced American prejudice, and now I was witnessing a different kind of discrimination whose origin was slavery rather than geopolitical ignorance.


We drove to some city in Kentucky to visit Mike’s sister before his moving to California. It was a hot and humid evening. His sister lived in a small apartment. I only remember a small fan and his sister with a baby on her lap. We were not staying in any hotels; the guys were driving continuously replacing each other. I could not drive at that time. We were also pulling a small U-Hall cart. The next morning it was raining, and suddenly our car went out of control and spun a couple of times stopping in the middle of the freeway facing the on-coming traffic. Fortunately, there were no cars on the road. George screamed, “Get out of the car.” We jumped out and stood on the slope by the road getting soaking wet. My new sandals got wet and muddy. Mike managed to straighten the car, and we continued our journey south. The accident, however, resulted in some damage to the rear bumper, and we began to look for a gas station. After a while, we pulled into a gas station by the freeway in the outskirts of Memphis, Tennessee, but a white mechanic refused to repair our car. The guys realized that we had to go to the black section of town. On our way there, we stopped at a hamburger place. We walked in and sat at the counter. I was sitting between Mike and George. I had a light blue zirconium square-shaped like an engagement ring on my left hand’s fourth finger. This, probably, made the situation worse. The people most likely thought that I was engaged to one of these man, and maybe that we were the activists of the civil rights movement. Of course, I was not aware of that, but did notice that everybody was looking at us, and the man at the counter looked and acted rather hostile towards us. We finished our meals and walked out quietly.

We found the black section of the town with a black mechanic who started working on our car. We struck a conversation, and he told me that he came from Los Angeles because he lost his wife in a car accident there. He also told me that our car was too light for the load it was pulling and advised me to take a bus to California.

While I was standing on a sidewalk waiting for the car to be fixed, I saw a black man across the street. As I looked at him, he started crossing the street going towards me. All of a sudden, George ran up to me. I asked him what happened, and he said, “Don’t you see the guy is coming up to you?” I realized that I had two wonderful bodyguards. Unfortunately, I had to tell them that I had decided to follow the mechanic’s advice to continue my trip home by bus. The bus was leaving late in the evening.

Before taking me to the bus station, we stopped at a gas station. It was already dark. Suddenly, a car full of noisy white young men pulled in. They were agitated as if looking for trouble. George whispered to me, “Lie down on the floor.” He didn’t have to say it twice; I was down almost flat on the floor in the back of the car. The car was a convertible, and the back window was old yellow plastic. The side windows were down because it was hot. By that time, I finally understood that we were in danger. However, God saved us, and we had no confrontation.

George and Mike drove me to the bus station and saw me off. As I looked at them for the last time, I knew that I would never see them again, but I often thought of them. The bus was full of white Americans from Alabama. They were joking with me, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I just smiled and nodded in reply wishing they leave me alone.


Tatiana Erohina
09/16/07

TIMOTHY GLASBY
Assignment 5/ Dialogue

“Our Government is made up of three branches,” droned on Mr. Templeton. “Who can...” he continued talking, not noticing that a school office worker walked into my Government Economics class. She coughed and he acknowledged her. “May I help you, Miss.?”
She handed him a note and left as quickly as she had arrived. Mr. Templeton, no less than ninety years old, taught only this senior class. They must have believed that they owed Mr. Templeton this respect, as rumor had it,he was around to help write President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address.
After reading the note, which became a task on its own, as Mr. Templeton’s glasses were as thick as a telescope's lens, he said, “Mr. Glasby, Mr. Zelkers would like to see you in his office.”
I smiled and replied “Thank you.”
“Now, Mr. Glasby, now,” he demanded.
Why would the principal want to speak with me just before graduation? We had less than a week of school remaining and this had bad news written all over it. Would I have to repeat my senior year and be forced to spend another god-forsaken year in this cornball hayseed burg before making my way to California and my dreams of a future as a big time magician or actor or anything but staying here?
I made it to the classroom door with jeers from my fellow students. Standing outside Mr. Zelker’s office I thought, “ If he says I had to spend another year here, I’ll have no choice but to beat him to death with one of the sports trophies that he had won when he was a student here.” After that I could steal my school folder, return to class, and tell everyone that it was someone else he wanted to talk with.
Seated outside his office, I envisioned his tomb. The curtains were always drawn from the outside, and inside, the door was always closed. Rumor was that he was a vampire and kept it dark inside so the sunlight wouldn’t melt him. He was never seen in the halls, so this made perfect sense.
He came to the door, small drops of blood (or was it ketchup?) dripped from his overly formed canines, and invited me in. Pointing to the chair across from his desk, he sat and smiled at me as if we were going to have a nice civil conversation. I’m sure he saw my eyes darting around the room. He didn’t know that I was looking for the trophy with the best heft and the easiest grasp to use on him until he was nothing but a mass of smashed bone and sinewy flesh. My eyes also quested for a sharp wooden object to pierce his heart as I knew that a beating alone would not slow this Nosferatu. I would be forced into ramming the wooden stake through his heart to rid the world, and my fellow students, of this demon. Not seeing a casket, I deduced that his desk turned into the coffin that he slept in during the daytime
“Mr. Glasby, I have been speaking to all the bums that have no plans to go on to college to see what they’re planning for their futures. You happen to be one of those bums.”
“I’m leaving Birch Run to move to California as soon as I have enough money,” I quickly replied, hoping to save a bite to my jugular.
I hated giving away my next location, as I knew that vampires could travel fast at night and he could probably track me down, but California is a big state so he’d still have lots of looking to do.
“I see,” he started. “Any plans on going on with school once you resettled out there? There are a lot of great schools in California. You’ve heard of UCLA?”
“Yes, But Santa Barbara is where I’ll be moving as that’s where my brother lives,” I replied, hating myself for pinpointing my exact location in California. “But, I don't think I'll be going to college there because they had a big riot and the National Guard killed a couple of students or maybe it was a principal last year.” I informed him
“Well, Tim, you’ve done pretty well in the classes that you cared about. I see you had six English classes and six math classes and did well in all of them.”
“Don’t forget the speech class,” I emphasized. “I got an A+ in that.”
“Yes, and you were active in theater also. Your records shows that you are a member of the National Thespian Society.”
“Yes, I did six plays. I played Piglet in House at Pooh Corner for the children’s show.” Still I had to ask the burning question, “Am I going to graduate Mr. Zelkers?”
“Oh yes, Tim,” he stated. “We just wondered why you didn’t want to go onto college.”
“That’s easy, because I’m moving to California,” I finished. “May I go back to class now?”
“Sure, but if you have any questions about college, Mr. Offenback, the counselor, can answer them for you. Have a good day and good luck in California.”
“Bye,” I said, as I hurried back to class knowing that my fears of not graduating were unfounded and, eventually, I'd get out of Birch Run.
Returning to class, my best friend John, asked, “What happened?”
“I’m still going to California, and Zelkers said it was okay," I replied.

“Candidate Yamasaki, tell us how the Japanese are planning to attack based on the situation as I described?” asked Lieutenant Swanson, the tactical officer. This after a fifteen-minute lecture on how the Japanese and Åmericans were situated on this large terrain model… Lt. Swanson had spoken as a Japanese colonel describing in English with a Japanese accent how they were situated to ambush the American forces.

Seventy candidates working towards receiving an Army commission was in this lecture room. One major goof up was sufficient to be thrown out of the school. The wash out rate was 50% in these seventeen weeks of torment. I hadn’t expected to be quizzed. I had sat there somewhat relaxing after our field exercise the hour before. I was not paying particular attention to what he was saying. Most of us thought of this lecture as a period of physical relaxation…. The first question was directed at me.

Startled I immediately stood up and snapped to attention to answer the lieutenant. What came out of my mouth in perfect English diction was,”Sir, I didn’t quite understand your explanation of the Japanese battle conditions. Could you repeat them again, sir?” The class, to my surprise, burst in an uproar of laughter. They recognized the racial irony of it all. They thought it comical that an American was talking with a Japanese accent and a Japanese (me) was talking in perfect English without accent. I believe the officer was a little embarrassed and changed the subject. Phew! I thought. I’m going to have to stay away from Lt. Swanson.

What was painful to me was that two of us Nisei were in this class of white candidates trying to minimize our Japanese-ness. We wanted to show how American we were. Then this lieutenant picks on me to explain how the Japanese were going to attack the American forces. Doesn’t the lieutenant know that we are part of the American forces and we are concentrating on showing our American-ness? He is asking me to show how we, the Japanese, are going to attack the American forces? Giimme a break…

This was in 1945. The US was in the battle of Iwo Jima. Iwo Jima was one of the islands that the American forces eventually conquered with high casualties on both sides. As was customary with our age group, there would be some jokester with a slight bent towards cruelty. “Hey, Iwo. How’s the war going?” He picked up on “Jim” and “Jima” and started calling me “Iwo.” It did not stick too widely, but enough to give me some distress. There were other Jims in our class and they were not called Iwo. I of course shrugged off such slurs but this was typical of guys trying to put the Nisei in an uncomfortable position.

In the service we Nisei were subjected to many incidents of similar racial slant. This was such a normal state of affairs that we learned to live with it, however unhappily.

Dave Blodgett - Assignment #5

No Title VII provision of the Equal Employment Opportunity Act of 1964 helps Nelson Bridges, the self-employed, sixty-year-old black shoe shine “boy” who buffs the shoes of Amoco Oil Company’s Chief Executive Officer John Swearingen—the man at the top of the ladder—and shines my shoes too—one of his lowliest slaves toiling in the trenches of the Marketing Research Department at 910 South Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

"It's Swearingen’s favorite slogan:‘The restless spirit of innovation is our passport to the future.’ Eleven little words that can get you a big tip.”

Nelson and I play this little game every time he pays me a visit.
He knows it's all in fun.

“Look, all you have to do is drop a handful of words into the big man’s ear and he’ll love it.”

“Oh no, he's more likely to ask who put me up to it. Then you're in big trouble. I’ll tell him it’s Mr. Blawjit on the seventh floor.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, we're good friends. Look at the pictures you got hanging on your wall. Who’s that tall, skinny lady?”

“Sojourner Truth. One of the greatest abolitionist orators. A beautiful black woman and a powerful speaker."

“And the chubby little woman?”

“Harriet Tubman who led more than 300 slaves to freedom in the ‘underground railway’ to Canada.”

“Why'd you hang them on your wall?”

“I’m in charge of Title VII compliance in the marketing department, and these are my heroes. Do you recognize Frederick Douglass?”

“I sure do. He was something.”

"Nelson, could you use a .22 caliber, single-shot rifle? My son has one, and I want to get rid of it."

”I'd be happy to take it off your hands. I could use it to shoot the rats around our place. Maybe you can drop it off some Saturday.”

We agree not to mock our great CEO who demonstrated his "restless spirit of innovation" by divorcing his wife of thirty years and marrying a trophy bride--Bonnie ("Miss Alabama")Swearingen, who embarrassed 40,000 Amoco employees when she told Women’s Wear Daily, “I eat honey from the honeycomb before making love to John, because that’s what the Chicago Bears' linebacker Dick Butkus does before every football game."

The next day I deliver the rifle to my good and wise friend Nelson Bridges, professional shoe shiner, at his neatly maintained shack in the all-black Robbins suburban slum south of Chicago--my small contribution to affirmative action.

Diane Marcus - Assignment #5

“I’m not surprised, Sharon, just disappointed that you lived down to my expectation of you.” Then I turned and walked into the bedroom, shut the door behind me and ended all communication with Herb’s eldest fifty-two-year-old daughter.

Seven years previous, when she was meditating with the Raj Neesh to levitate for peace, I sent her a letter asking if it wouldn’t be a good idea to try solve the rift in her family first. After reading my note she placed it back into the same envelope, sealed it with scotch tape and wrote across the address "return to sender." No response, her answer was clear.

When the phone rang this dreary Thursday morning in December at eight-thirty I was taken by surprise by the voice I recognized after five years of silence.

“Hi, this is Sharon and I’d like to talk to my dad.”

“Hang on, I’ll wake him.”

Slowly, very slowly I walked to the bedroom, wondering if I should let Herb know that his daughter was on the phone. After years of denying him her life and her child, there she is. I knew the reason and my dilemma is: do I let him be hurt by her again or protect him? Wanting to believe the best in her I said:
“Herb, Sharon is on the phone and wants to talk to you.”

“Sharon? Do I know a Sharon?”

“It’s Sharon, your daughter.”

“Oh, Sharon!” and with that he took the phone.

Plans were made that Sharon would come down to spend the day alone with her father.

“That’s great,” I lied, knowing that trouble would follow, that in the end Herb would once again have expectations that would never be fulfilled. But I’m a cynical optimist and couldn’t risk a possible positive outcome even though I knew it would never happen.

“Great, I’m going to go to San Diego. Do me just one favor. Don’t leave you’re dad alone, so please let me know what time you want to leave so I can be home.”

“If you leave for home at three that will be perfect."

"I’ll call you from there to make sure.”

End of conversation. She came and I left with barely a nod of acknowledgment.

At two-thirty I called and Herb answered the phone.

“Where are you? We need to talk. I’m so surprised that you would do such a thing.”

“Tell Sharon not to move, I’ll be home as soon as I can. Shit! Shit. Shit!”

How could I be fooled for even one second to believe that she would not hurt her dad?

This all started around Chanukah when Herb, who is totally unaware of our finances, unable to keep a checkbook or pay bills, or do any household chores decided he was going to give Sharon, a daughter who abandoned him accusing us both of stealing money and so on--all the angry accusations that come out of a divorce. I gave him an old check from an account that had been closed for two years on which he wrote a check to Sharon for five thousand dollars. When I mailed the check to her I wrote a note explaining the situation and asking her to of course tear it up, but to please give her father the dignity of thanking him, to allow him to feel proud of helping her out. Instead, she came to spend a day with her dad.

When I walked in the door that afternoon I was greeted by the snide smiling daughter and my husband.

“How could you do this, Diane? Why would you take that five thousand dollars I gave Sharon and put it into your private bank account?” That’s when I turned to her and said, "I’m not surprised, just disappointed that you lived down to my expectations of you."