God's Black Badge

By Jim Finn

It seems that since my conception, God has always blessed me with his
guidance and protection. He has always taken care of my enemies, and he took my
pain to become their pain. There were many times that I could not understand or
rationalize why my situations were eased and the end results were always positive.
It took me many years to realize that Gods unchanging hand dealt me the
necessary cards of life that has carried me from the gutter most to the uttermost.
As we Christian folks always say, God may not be there when you need him most,
but he will not forsake you and he is always be there on time.
The following occurrences are true, and without my Lord and Savior
Jesus Christ, my life would be in turmoil and filled with sadistic behavior. The
following is also my testimony of just how great Gods love is if we would only let
go and let God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493100835

Jim Finn

Jim Finn: Born November 5, 1952 United States Air Force Schools: Goliad High School Woodbury University University Nevada Las Vegas I was raised a Baptist, lived as a Catholic, ate as a Lutheran, think as a Buddhist, and conserved as a Jew. I was the fi rst African American commissioned as a deputy sheriff in the County of Goliad in 1980. I was the third commissioned police offi cer for the City of El Campo, Tx. I was the fi rst African American to campaign for the offi ce of Sheriff in the County of Goliad, Tx. Father of three girls and one boy. Former Marketing and Admission Director at a retirement facility. Director of the Texas Flag Youth Football Association.

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CHAPTER ONE

Sticks and stones…

I t seems that since my conception, God has always blessed me with his guidance and protection. He has always taken care of my enemies, and he took my pain to become their pain. There were many times that I could not understand or rationalize why my situations were eased and the end results were always positive. It took me many years to realize that God’s unchanging hand dealt me the necessary cards of life that has carried me from the gutter most to the uttermost. As we Christian folks always say, God may not be there when you need him most, but he will not forsake you and he is always be there on time.

The following occurrences are true, and without my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, my life would be in turmoil and filled with sadistic behavior. The following is also my testimony of just how great God’s love is if we would only let go and let God.

I was born in Goliad, Texas, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and fifty-two unto George and Allie Fay Finlay. After my birth, my life has taken me through many highs and lows.

I have always been the first African American in this county to be involved in life’s socialistic events. Even as a young black child growing up in Goliad County, I had privileges that afforded me that other black kids did not. For example, I was the first all A student since integration of the middle schools. I would have been the class valedictorian had my mother had not opted for me to attend the white school during the first year of integration.

My mother, like most black mothers, wanted me to have the best of everything. She worked as a housemaid, cleaning lady, laundry lady, and piano teacher. There were many times I accompanied her on her jobs, only to the watch her get on her hands and knees, cleaning the floors of white people. I would occupy my time marveling at the many items in their homes. I would visualize owning some of these same things when I grow up. Some of these people were rich or middle class, but there were some who were just as poor as we were, but because of their skin color, they had bragging rights within their circle of friends of having a black woman scrubbing their floors. My mother on a good day would make two dollars.

My mother attempted to teach me how to play the piano, although I did not take her lessons too seriously, to say the least. She then had Diane Randolph to try to teach m e. Diane was one of my mother’s piano pupils. She was good and outgrew the lessons my mother could teach her. Diane and her family lived in a home that was extremely haunted. Therefore, out lessons did not work out too well because of the ghosts that resided in her home. They would always interrupt us with their banging on the upstairs floor and making strange noises. Then there was Mrs. Gathings: a lady with much class. She was a descendant from wealthy white grandparents. She had ghosts in her home also, but they were not your average scare the shit out of you type of ghosts. They were more like angels. As a young black male, my fear of the unknown had not matured. I could feel them because of the cold breezes that would all of a sudden rush across my body. They would leave a sweet-perfumed smell. Mrs. Gathings was too strict, and her frail snakelike skin frightens me.

Many years later, my family and I became renters of that very same house for two months while I was in transition with my future. My suspicion of Ms. Gathings and that house was confirmed. There were indeed ghosts roaming throughout the house. I saw a man whom I knew as a kid walking each night to turn off the front porch light. He was a deacon at church. I recall back then how the older people would gossip how he and Ms. Gathings were secret lovers. He was well known for his khaki pants and black shoes as he would walk miles every Sunday to attend church. All the times my family was in that house, I’d accuse my wife of turning the porch light off each night because I needed it on when I left for work. Then, early one Saturday morning, I heard the footsteps. My wife and I had attended a Wheat Straw dance the night before. My wife was the one who woke me up, alerting me to the sounds of footsteps and the playing of the piano. The same piano I took lessons on. At that point, I told my wife to go back to sleep as it was just all the weed we had been smoking. It was hard for me to go back to sleep, and because I couldn’t fall back asleep, I heard the piano began to play. It was continuously replaying the same notes. The hair on my body began to stand up. We were too scared to turn on any lights, but by the faint glow from the porch light shining through the window, I could see and hear the khaki pants and black shoes slowly walking toward the front door. The piano was positioned just to the left of the door. After telling my wife to go into our son’s room to protect him, I got up to enter into the room where all of this was happening. I was reluctant to turn on a light for fear of what I might see; however, I did so. There wasn’t some grossest entity playing the piano, so we all went back to bed. I did notice that the porch light had been turned off. While really wanting to get some sleep, I heard the piano play the same notes. Again, I got up, went into the room, turned on the light. Nothing was there.

I told my father and brother about what had happened. Their immediate want for money convinced me that this was a sign that the money everyone thought Ms. Gathings had was inside of the piano. They disassembled the piano in less than a minute. What they found was a mouse stuck between the middle C key and the G key. In his efforts to free himself, the mouse little feet could only stretch so far, thereby striking the same keys!

There was other strange occurrences that took place in that home such as dishes being transferred from one side of the cupboard to the other in which my wife accused my mother of doing, and the unlocking of doors that were locked before we went to bed. Then there was something that absolutely confirmed my suspicions in terms of Ms. Gathings weirdness. My son who was four years of age at that time would always tell us of a friend who would visit him in his room. This friend was a young man dressed in a plaid shirt, brown pants, and black shoes. I wrote this off as my son’s imaginary friend. My son also told me that at night he could hear jingle bells.

There was a small room between my son’s bedroom and the kitchen. This room was always cold and about the size of a walk-in closet. There was an old trunk in the room that reminded me of the kind of trunks pirates stored their valuables in. One day, my neighbor and I decided to open the trunk in hopes of finding all that money. After all, we had dug holes, tore off doors to shreds all over the property, looking for our payday. We finally got into the trunk after hours of trying, only to find whips, cat-o-nine tails, leather face masks, chains and boots. At that time, I did not realize that we had confirmed years of suspicion! Damn!

So, anyways, my mother approached Mrs. Tolbert. I was the first African American kid to be a student of Ms. Katie Tolbert, a noted voice and music teacher in Goliad. Her brother was the local doctor who, at one time, I thought was going to cut my penis off. She was wealthy beyond one’s imagination. She was friends with the Campbell’s of whom my father was employed. When my mother told her who my daddy was, I was immediately accepted. I wonder if my mother had to remind Mrs. Tolbert who my daddy was by saying, You know him Mrs. Tolbert, he’s Hattie’s nigger. Ms. Tolbert was an excellent teacher and famous throughout the country. Some of her students went on to fame. Diane Randolph was one such student. She got accepted to Julliard and became a world-renowned opera singer. I allowed peer pressure to interfere with my lessons. Besides, I wasn’t blessed with that particular God-given talent as was most members of my family.

My mother would pay Ms. Talbert thirty dollars per one-half-hour lesson.

The Goliad County Independent School District became totally integrated by the year 1965; however, African Americans were given the option of attending the white schools in 1964. My mother took the option.

Charlie Charlie Taylor, a comical white kid, became my best friend. Our friendship is alive and doing well even now. Charlie is also a musician. He could sing very well and played a mean guitar. During our high school years, I was honored that Charlie would always invite me to travel with him to all of his band engagements. The name of his first group was the Kustoms. This name was taken from the Kustom brand of speakers they were using.

I was often ostracized for hanging out with Charlie by most of the black kids. I was called just about every name imaginable and then some more. I became the first black man to ever set foot into some most segregated dance halls in South Texas. Most of these halls were German and Polish. Charlie always defended me when the ugly head of racism would appear. There was one incident in which the owner of a popular hall refused to allow me to party with them.

This particular owner had forgotten that he had prepaid the band in advance; therefore, Charlie and the rest of the guys told him that if I cannot come in, they would pack up all of the equipment and leave. It was a nice dance, and I had much fun.

James Shaw was a friend to everyone in the band and became my friend as well. Shaw was one of those guys that love to fight anyone for any reason. He had many stays in jail to prove it. He stood about five feet ten inches and very stocky. He had knife wounds on just about every place on his body. Shaw took a liking to me, and when he heard someone call me a nigger, he kicked his ass and the ass of his two friends. One of the assholes cut Shaw across the stomach, and he had to be hospitalized for a few days. Because of the protection Shaw gave me that night, word got around to all the good ole boys not to mess with me. Shaw was my friend from that day on. He was like a one-man mafia organization, and no one ever thought of messing with him.

I truly believe that Shaw was a godsend. I guess God knew how impervious and ignorant I was to racism that I never thought about how hatred gave birth to violence. I never once gave any thought of the many times I had placed my life in danger. There were a lot of racists that did not enjoy me dancing with the white girls regardless of the many James Brown splits I would do. Shaw was my protector, sent to me by my God.

I was the first black kid to sit in the booths at the local drugstore long before the civil rights act. I was the first black little league baseball player to hit a home run during the league’s first year of integration. There were many other numerous firsts for me as I grew up into society. For these accomplishments, I was often ostracized and ridiculed, just because of the people who employed my asshole father.

My mother was a housekeeper for the rich, and my father was personal assistant to one of the richest white folks in the county. I went along with my mother as she cleaned these homes. She would always let me eat their food, play with their toys, watch their colored TVs. I played with their children, their nephews and nieces, and cousins. Hell, I even played with their stepchildren.

My punishment for this interactive socializing was that I was ignorant to the racial divide in the county during the nineteen fifties and sixties. Whenever those kids went to the local drugstore for sodas and ice cream, I went along with them. I sat in the booths and laughed along with them. I had no idea that blacks were not allowed to sit in the booths. Blacks had to stand near the far end of the counter to order what they wanted.

I remember one day my friends and I were having milk shakes when some white man entered the dining area and asked the waitress why that boy was sitting down with those white kids. I heard the server tell him that I was Harriet’s nigger’s boy. The white man only said, Oh, and ordered his food.

Harriet was the wife of Phil Campbell. They were the richest people in the county at the time and my daddy was their main man. Most of everyone in town knew that. This did not sit well with most black kids because I was often ostracized and ignored by them, thereby leaving me to play only with the white kids. Because of the people, my parents worked for allowed me to go anywhere I wanted to without any trouble. Of course, there were times when I went to some places by myself and never had any trouble. I was still oblivious to the racial tension for that era.

I was one of the first groups of black kids to integrate the Little League. Actually, there were four of us. We were all very good players, but I stood out. I guess because I was a catcher, throwing out white kids attempting to steal bases. I think that I still hold the home-run record.

At the age of twelve, I played in a teenage baseball league called the Babe Ruth League. I was the only black kid playing. Most of the white kids I grew up with were also on the team. Our manager was the superintendent of schools, Mr. David Norman. David Norman was a hell of a man. His philosophy was that of most white George Wallace followers, of course, at the time, I had no idea that this man was a racist. He would always allow me to ride on the back of his nineteen sixty-sixty Ford Ranchero when we had out of town games.

I remember when we were to travel to George West for a game. The town of George West was about fifty-five miles Southwest of Goliad. It was raining heavily in Goliad but dry as summer cotton in George West. The team always met at the junior high school when we had to travel out of town in order to set up our rides. Most of the parents furnished transportation, but David Norman told me that I could ride on the back of his truck all the time. I did not mind this because I enjoyed the open air and avoided the wet dog smell David Norman always seemed to have. On this particular rainy day, I left home as usual. I would always stop at the restaurant where my mother was cooking. She would always make me a filet mignon sandwich and french fries. Sometimes I would just get an extra super hamburger and french fries. Because of the rain, I would stop under shelter at different locations en route to the junior high. When I arrived there, only a few members of the team were there. David Norman arrived and informed us that he had called George West and that it was not raining, so we were to leave as soon as the rest of the team showed up. When we were all set to go, and because of the heavy rain, I wanted to enter into the cab of David Norman’s Ford Ranchero when he told me to get in the back. Although there were only David Norman and one other player in the cab, without question, I got in the back of David Norman’s Ford Ranchero, covered my head with my baseball cap and glove, and watched the heavy raindrops fall off cap onto my glasses and onto the bed of David Norman’s Ford Ranchero.

Sheriff Bain would always drive his son, Bobby, to the away games in his most impressive county sheriff car. I was always impressed with that car. It had a long whip antenna and a police radio. I was so impressed with Sheriff Bain dressed up in a starched long-sleeved white shirt and cowboy cut kakis. He had a small silver badge on his left side. As we all, were about to leave for George West, Sheriff Bain and Bobby pulled alongside David Norman’s Ford Ranchero and told me to get into his car. There were not enough adjectives to express my feelings when Sheriff Bain told me to get in his car. My excitement and joy was not because I was getting out of the rain but because I was riding in Sheriff Bain’s patrol car.

When we began the ball game, I played the game of my life. I hit two home runs and a triple. I threw out every runner that attempted to steal second base on me. Of course, as usual, whenever a pitched ball got pass me, our own fans would yell, Catch the ball, you nigger, or sometimes, Get that nigger out of there, Norman. David Norman would just look up into the stands and smile. On one occasion, I caught him by utilizing my great peripheral vision, taking off his shinny wire rimmed bi-focal glasses, acknowledging a Goliad fan when then fan called me a nigger. I am sure they meant no harm to a twelve-year-old because each time they said the N word, they would all laugh.

I cannot remember what the final score was, but I do remember we beat that George West team very badly. I guess what I never will forget about that game is Sheriff Bain telling me to always ride with him and Bobby on all away games. I remember telling myself that I would never ever again ride in David Norman’s Ford Ranchero.

Sheriff Bain has always overwhelmed me, even as a six-year-old. I was six years of age when I first met the sheriff. During the summer of 1958, my brother and our friend Ernest formed our own posse. It was very hot that summer, it was so hot that black people had to wait in line to enter the Five and Dime store, just to cool off in the air condition. Normally, they could just go on in the store, but on that day, there were poor whites who didn’t have air conditioned homes, so they would all crowed up to