Raising Ricky

By Elizabeth Mentzer

This is my story of an interracial adoption back in the early seventies. Ricky is a high- spirited, stubborn, loving, eighteen-month-old boy. He grows up the youngest of five older sisters. There were challenges, but we all survived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887938653

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Raising Ricky

Elizabeth Mentzer

Copyright © 2023 Elizabeth Mentzer

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88793-864-6 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-865-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

As I sit down to write about this experience, I am torn between what were the real challenges. Between adoption, race, and what would probably be diagnosed today as ADHD, it has been quite a journey.

It all began in the era of mass protest over the Vietnam War, the civil rights struggle, and the hippie generation’s grudge against the establishment. It is a time that is hard to know what to think of where you and your family fit in a world of turmoil. It was 1970, and we were a family of seven: husband Bob, wife Ann, and five daughters: Mary age thirteen, Susan age eleven, Kathy age nine, Trudy age five, and Karen age two.

Where We Stand on the War

Bob and I had a problem with the generation gap in our marriage. The Vietnam War is a major difference. I am seven years younger than Bob, and I say that if I had a son old enough to be drafted, I would send him to Canada. The war was wrong, we had no business there, let the Vietnamese settle their own problems, etc. On the other hand, Bob is a Korean veteran and feels that if your country calls, you go. I walked to high school many mornings and watched the sky light up from the atomic bomb test in Nevada. I had a serious fear of the big bomb for years and wanted no part in the war.

Where We Stand on the Civil Rights Movement

Bob and I were both very much for equality among the races. Bob and I were born on opposite sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, and the environments in which we were raised was very different, especially as it pertains to race.

There is no way to candy-coat the environment in which I was raised. My early life was in the Missouri cotton fields of the segregated south. My father was a farmer and part-time minister for a church in the boot-heel of Missouri, near Memphis, Tennessee. As a farmer, my father often hired black workers to help work the fields. I do not think my parents thought of the black workers as equals, but they were treated fairly. Most other white farmers would pay the black workers less than their white counterparts. My dad paid the same for a pound of cotton, no matter who picked it. I was raised in a time, and in an environment where the common term for black people was, nigger. As a young child, I did not know this word to be a put-down, but simply a term used to refer to a person who was black. My parents used this word, and I am sure that I also said it. I had many other relatives who referred to their help as our niggers and they treated them as if they were still slaves. I remember being a very young child and listening as the members of our church would debate as to whether or not black people had souls. Even as a small child, this seemed absurd. Growing up, I feel that my parents set a good example for my sister and I, because I can not recall ever hearing my parents make negative remarks about black people, with the exception of their common use of the word, Nigger when we lived on the farm.

I recall a day when I was about five years old. It was a cold October day, perfect for butchering hogs. Smoked pork and chicken were the only meats available for a poor share-cropping family. My mother was ill, and my dad needed help to get the meat butchered, cured, and the fat rendered. There was a crew of black workers from town in the next field pulling bolls. This was the last picking for the season, and was cold, dirty work. My dad went over to make a deal to get a couple of the men to help by offering to share part of the meat. These were poor times for every one; and when the negotiations were complete, the entire field of workers, including women and children, came to help. My dad felt bad stealing his neighbor’s workers, but it resulted in a full day of picnicking and fun at our house. These workers were living in severe poverty, and this day turned out to be good for everyone because they would have meat to take home at the end of the day. This was the first time that I had really played with black children, and although I recall having a lot of fun playing with the children, I remember my mother worrying that because they were poor, I might catch lice.

When I was about ten years old, my father became a full-time minister in Campbell, Missouri. Campbell was located just south of the Mason-Dixon line. Jim Crow laws made it legal for people to warn black people that they were not welcomed members of the community. I remember driving to church in Campbell and passing a sign that said, Black man, do not let the sun set on your head in this town. I heard my dad express