Race. It's an uncomfortable topic for a lot of people. But, I ask, why should it be? When I make a post on Facebook involving the subject of race, some people seem to steer clear of the discussion.
Race is often one of those third-rail issues, where people fear saying the wrong thing. Not me.
Oh, for sure, I may carefully choose my words, so as not to offend anyone. But you know what? Some members of my own race might be perturbed by ideas I have on the subject.
In fact, I was once labeled an Uncle Tom for my political views.
It happened during Sunday morning worship service, from the sanctity of one of Hattiesburg's pulpits, no less.
On the other end, I've been called a racist by some white friends who visit my page on Facebook.
Then, get this: one of my closest white friends (and I have many) alleges I'm not "black enough." (Whatever that means.) A couple of times on Facebook, I've been called to task for playing the infamous race card. (Okay, did I miss anything?)
Let's face it, no matter our race, we're all shaped by the events and experiences of our lives.
Growing up in segregated Hattiesburg of the 1960s, I have a long list of those experiences, dating back to grade school.
I've been wearing glasses since I was eight years old. Concerned about my vision issues, my mother took me to see an optometrist at Green Eye Clinic.
Back then, the clinic was located on Hall Avenue, near the old Methodist Hospital. There, I had one of my first experiences with why being black made me "different."
My mother and I sat together in the waiting room, with a few other black patients.
The floor was covered with standard linoleum, where we sat on cheap folding metal chairs, the kind that might used at a card game. On the opposite side of the reception desk, I could see into a separate waiting area.
There, white patients sat in a more tastefully decorated room, complete with comfortable, upholstered chairs.
Curious 8-year-old that I was, I turned to my mother and asked, "MoDear," (that's how we addressed our mother), "why do the white people have such a nice room over there, and ours looks like this?"
It was 1964 and the best answer my mother could give me was, "Elijah, that's just the way things are."
I got used to the way things were. It was the 1960s. I had no choice.
Today, when attending an event at Hattiesburg's elegantly restored Saenger Theater, I'll admit, every time I'm there I think back to yesteryear.
When school was out during the summer, Hattiesburg school students looked forward to attending weekly afternoon movie matinees at the Saenger.
If you're my age, you may remember. Six RC Cola bottle caps were all you needed for admission. (Smart marketing move for RC Cola; those caps were like cash to us kids.)
Only thing, black children were not allowed to use the main lobby entrance to turn in our RC caps.
As did all black movie-goers, we entered the Saenger through a door located in a side alley. We then walked up a set of stairs, sitting in the balcony, to watch King Kong beat up on Godzilla.
From our balcony perch, we could see the white kids sitting below on the main level, in cushioned seats. We thought little of it.
It was the way things were.
I belong to a Facebook group called "Remember When In Hattiesburg." It's so much fun, discussing with the group memories of growing up in my hometown.
But, and I have to be honest here, when the conversations turn to memories of eating at some of downtown's restaurants, my own memories are not as warm. California Sandwich Shop, Coney Island Cafe, Woolworth's lunch counter, yes, I do remember when.
I had lunch recently with some friends of mine at downtown's Southbound Bagel Company. When I was a kid, it was known as the California Sandwich Shop.
In those days, there was a dedicated side window, where black customers had to order, and take their food with them. (The window is still there.) Black patrons were not allowed to sit and eat inside any of downtown's restaurants. It was the way things were.
I grew up on Fairley Street in east Hattiesburg. From my house, we walked up 7th Street on our way to Eureka Elementary School.
On our way, we had to walk past Lamar Elementary School.
In case you don't remember it, Lamar School was a beautiful neoclassic school building at the corner of Bouie and 7th streets.
The school, for white students only, served those children who lived at Briarfield Apartments.
At the time, Briarfield tenants were 100 percent white, almost the exact opposite of today.
As we walked to Eureka, passing Lamar School, we knew to stay on the north side of 7th street so as not to walk on the sidewalk that ran adjacent to the school.
Looking back, I'm believing it couldn't have been the law. But we understood it to be, at least, an unwritten rule. Saturday and Sundays were okay, but we never walked on that side of the street during school days. We understood it as the way things were.
That's a short list of the things I lived through as a black child growing up in a segregated America.
And, as I pointed out earlier, those experiences have helped shape me into the person I am today.
There's no way I can ignore what life was like for me back then. But before you make any assumptions about the person I've become, I'll level with you. I have no hard feelings or hatred about the way things were.
It may be hard to believe but, segregation or not, I'm grateful for the experiences of my youth. Today's children can only read about this important slice of American history.
I got to live it, and consider myself fortunate to have done so. But please.
Don't expect me to forget that history, as I've been instructed to do on more than one occasion on Facebook. How can I forget? Besides, despite that segregated past, there are also moments of triumph. Here's my favorite.
My mother worked in the kitchen of a place some of you may remember, Mrs. Hardy's boarding house. The owner really liked my mother who, at the time she was employed, was working her way though college. When she needed extra money for school, the owner of Mrs. Hardy's would provide my mother with advances on her salary. But that money would sometimes come with a little qualifier.
"Della Ruth," she'd tell my mother, "I don't mind doing this for you, but I wouldn't do it if I thought you were one of those agitators." Agitator was a word used to describe those people, black or white, who worked hard for everyone's equal rights during the 1960s Civil Rights movement.
Little did the owner know though, my mother was indeed one of those "agitators."
My mother moved to Hattiesburg fromLeakeville at a very young age. When she was growing up in Greene County, black schoolchildren received only an 8th-grade education. But my mother thirsted for knowledge and thirsted to learn more.
Finding a family who provided a place for her to live, she moved to Hattuesburg, where she graduated from Earl Travillion High School in the Palmer's Crossing community. From there, she continued her education, receiving a degree from Tougaloo College near Jackson.
She went on to become a school teacher with the Hattiesburg Public School District, retiring as principal at Grace Christian Elementary School.
So if wanting that kind of life for herself and for her children, if wanting to be treated equally meant my mother was an "agitator?"
Then so be it.
When the federal government got involved and finally outlawed this country's heinous Jim Crow laws, I was too young to appreciate the meaning of what had happened.
But oh, my mother did.
To mark the occasion, she took her children to Woolworth's, where we could all now order food, sit and eat at the lunch counter. My mother instructed each of us to be sure and behave ourselves while we were there. (We did, too.)
Race. Why should we be afraid to discuss it?
Truth is, the more we discuss race, and the things that have historically divided us, the more we discover we're much more alike than we are different.
I'll say again, I'm thankful for the life I've lived and would trade nothing for the experiences that have brought me to where I am today.
And to all my friends on the "Remember When In Hattiesburg" page, let me tell you something.
I'm glad I finally got to taste one of those banana splits at Woolworth's while sitting at the lunch counter to enjoy it.
Hey, Woolworth's banana splits were yummy-fine!
Elijah Jones is a writer and a proud graduate of the Hattiesburg Public School System and the University of Southern Mississippi. Send those emails to edjhubtown@aol.com and he’ll be sure to respond.
