Son of a Bigot: Personal Ramblings on Racial Inequality in Sports and Politics

By Jack Fitterson

What you are about to read, and hopefully enjoy, are the views and opinions of an ordinary working-class guy, who is also a sports lover. A lot of my commentary and beliefs are based on how racially equality was, and still is, addressed in the United States. For whatever reason, fundamental fairness was something I was willing to fight for. I expressed my views on many occasions, much to my detriment. Ill let you be the judge and jury.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524606367

Jack Fitterson

Jack Fitterson is the pen name of a Civil War novelist, an optioned screenwriter, a lifelong sports enthusiast, and a political junkie who firmly believes that right wing Conservatives pose a threat to world peace.

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© 2016 Jack Fitterson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/26/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0637-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0636-7 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Author's Note

The Summer of '45

For Coloreds Only

The Price of Admission

Separate, But Equal?

The Unknown Soldier

Last Words

About The Author

DEDICATION

AUTHOR'S NOTE

What you are about to read---and hopefully enjoy---are the views and opinions of an ordinary working-class guy, who is also a sports lover. A lot of my commentary and beliefs are based on how racially equality was---and still is---addressed in the United States. For whatever reason, fundamental fairness was something I was willing to fight for. I expressed my views on many occasions, much to my detriment. I'll let you be the judge and jury.

THE SUMMER OF '45

It was originally my intention to title this book The Summer of '45. As time wore on and I prepared to sit down to put pen to pad on my observations about racial relations from the 1940s onward I decided the more appropriate title would be Son of a Bigot. Having grown up in Brooklyn, New York during The Great Depression in what I can only describe as a typically middle or lower-class neighborhood, it became apparent at an early age that my family was not well off. Hell, we lived on the second story of a four-story tenement in South Brooklyn.

Our apartment was over a barber shop and a drug store. It was a cold water flat, but my mother often referred to it as a railroad apartment. No doubt because of the long hallway that linked every room. We had a small kitchen, a very large dining room, three bedrooms, and an enormous living room with two huge picture windows. The room was big enough for my two older brothers and I to hold boxing matches. As the youngest of three boys who shared the same bed, I resented my assignment to the middle. I'm convinced it caused my passionate dislike for crowded subways. However, had I dared complain, it would have only amused my brothers. On the flip side, come winter, I had the warmest spot in our unheated apartment. I credit some of my hardships growing up with enabling me to handle difficulties. It always makes me laugh when people complain about losing their air conditioning for an hour. I often wonder how my younger sister survived in our male-dominated family.

Not that my mother was weak, but clearly my old man was without a doubt a tyrant. During the early thirties he spent his days---as many Depression era Americans did---pounding the pavement looking for work. Being without a steady job was not unusual in those days, but to my father it was pure torture. His sullen moods were directly associated to his employment, or the lack thereof. The man literally hid in his room when he was out of work. In those days, I never connected our empty bellies with my old man's unemployment. Never much of a talker, he was at least content at being uncrowned king of his household. The bickering we heard during the days he was jobless went on for months. My parents' arguing only stopped when my father used my mother as a punching bag. It's one memory I will never forget. Nor will I ever forgive him for hitting her.

It wasn't until World War Two when he became a piping supervisor at the Brooklyn Navy Yard that leg of lamb and succulent beef roasts started appearing on our dinner table. My father worked the night shift. He carried a large lunchbox to work, but returned home with a hell of a lot more items than he started out with. It was quite a turnabout for our quality of life, especially for my mother whose contagious laughter once again rattled the cupboards. The old man meanwhile, remained his not so jolly old self.

Our neighborhood in South Brooklyn was a mixed bag of Italian, Irish, Scandinavian, and German immigrants. While most school-age children used good English, or at least spoke with the these, those and them's natives of Brooklyn are famous for, their