ONE BLACK MAN: Growing Up - For John

By Chad Church

THE UNVARNISHED PERSONAL JOURNEY OF ONE BLACK MAN, TOLD TO HIS LONG-DECEASED, WHITE BEST FRIEND. A NARRATIVE IN THE FORM OF A SERIES OF LETTERS, CHRONICLING FROM CHILDHOOD WHAT IT'S MEANT TO BE A BLACK MAN GROWING UP IN AMERICA OVER FIFTY-PLUS YEARS. THIS SOMETIMES HEART-WRENCHING YET COMICAL MEMOIR SHARE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oxford Book Writers
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798868948305

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Richard_Church_(Ebook_-_BK1)Paul HendricksF382023-08-25T23:39:00Z2023-08-25T23:39:00Z2023-08-25T23:52:00Z607128230730913Aspose6090171485742916.000027a35869adfb37f3bb1b6c9433046b4f0f6f7efcb71714d65e4d78fecb0f9365

One Black Man

GROWING UP - FOR JOHN

Chad Church

Copyright © 2023

All Rights Reserved

Dedication

This book is dedicated to John Michael Hommel. Your spirit still rises with me every morning and sets with the sun every night. The brisk breeze of your physical presence here has filled my sails. Your humor has fueled me when I’m running on fumes. Your friendship has taught me everything it is to be a true friend. In good times and bad, you've been my first mate while I've navigated the high seas and shallow estuaries of my complex life. To not have had your existence here with me before and even now, I’d only be adrift at sea. You have been my life’s lighthouse.

Thank you.

Acknowledgment

Leatrice Joyce Glover-Church:  To my mother for teaching me to strive for patience in life and to always aim at doing and being my best with a loving heart.

Cornelius N. Church Sr.: To my father for teaching me to aim for the stars, so if I land on the moon, I’ve done well to have left these earthly bounds.

Desiree’ Church-Hopkins. To My sister, who taught me what self-discovery is and that self-esteem is a gift you give to yourself.

Maryann Betts: My first friend ever, who taught me to do the hard work first and has accepted every bit of me, from eating paste to coloring outside the lines.

Judith Hommel: John’s mother, for sharing her son with me and allowing our friendship to bud and grow.

Mrs. Pizzotti, Teacher: She took the time and made the investment in a young black boy with dyslexia to teach him to read, write and do math when he would have otherwise been left to rot on the vine.

Ms. Joyce, Teacher: She knew how to demand more and better. She knew how to engage and offer compassion while seeing that the hard work got done.

Donia Dunlap, Editor: Thanks for cutting up my first college editorial, giving me the grace to know how to be edited without throwing a tantrum, and committing to living with me for months on end to get the first version of this memoir ready for prime time.

Lori McSherry: Thanks for having the interest and excitement to be the first Beta read.

Viv Sparrow: Thanks for the friendship, encouragement, and push to move from manuscript to memoir.

Dan Conaway, Literary Agent, Writers House LLC

For the first bit of true direction, encouragement and constructive criticism that have led to the completion of a life’s goal.

Cynthia Williams & Matilda Griffiths, Vanilla Heart Publishers: 

For providing me with the tools, feedback, and guidance to get to the finish line of two books.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgment

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1 VISION QUEST

CHAPTER 2 HOME LIFE ON HAMILTON DRIVE

CHAPTER 3 ABOUT BAD KIDS

CHAPTER 4 GETTING INTO THE GROOVE

CHAPTER 5 GOING ON THE MOVE

CHAPTER 6 WANING LAST ENCOUNTERS

CHAPTER 7 DOUBLE WHAMMY

CHAPTER 8 DRUGS, ALCOHOL AND STUPID PEOPLE TRICKS

CHAPTER 9 ON THE ROAD

CHAPTER 10 CANNERY ROAD SHOW

CHAPTER 11 DENVER

CHAPTER 12 CZECH IN/E-MAILS OUT

CHAPTER 13 CHECKING OUT

About the Author

PREFACE

Dear John,

Many years ago, so long ago that it seems like a dream, we roamed the paths, picking milkweed buds from the scrub, opening the shells to release our wishes upon the spores blown away by the wind. We leaped from the high shorelines of the North River, wildly plunging into the flow of the stirring currents below. We built brilliant campfires, which stoked our spirits, setting them ablaze with the fission of a nuclear reaction. We shared stories with each other, along with moments and hours spent pondering things like the complexity of a snowflake drifting from the heavens or rutting like bulls when we were sure the other was wrong during heated debates. We shared our hopes and dreams for the future. We were so close and trusted each other so much we thought nothing of sharing our deepest secrets and fears with each other. We assumed we'd walk the paths and scout the woods together until we were old men. Our bond is so strong still that you, Sir, have kept me aloft simply by having existed... I KNOW you were here. I know YOU were here! I know you were HERE! It still pains me so to know that you are gone... physically, at least. You are absent, yet still here… You exist around me now, peeking from behind a door or looking over a rail. You make an appearance in a sudden memory, in a smell, a phrase, a feeling. I recognize it's been a while since we've had a tête-à-tête, but we're about to have a serious dialogue for a minute or two. You must be so excited. I remember how you just adored my lecturing rants when we were kids.

Like a good red wine, a bottle of Dom Perignon or maybe a good pungent chunk of cheese, I’ve just gotten better with age! Our plans, set in stone (or so we thought), may have splintered into chards. But as real as you were, they were, and as cutting as the reality of your leap from this physical plane was and has been, those plans now serve to sharpen my intent. I have managed to carry on out of necessity, though the pain of your passing nearly destroyed me. My existence began to hinge on trying to complete the plans we had so fervently plotted together. I surmised that any other course of action would have been devastating for not only me but for you, our friendship and your legacy. As I’ve aged, this gallery of well-painted intentions drawn from the imagination of first boys, then teens, and ultimately young men, still offers lessons for the world to absorb, yet only the true adventurer will appreciate my journey in its total composition.

I’ve had many friends throughout the years, and though some are great friends, deep friends, and loved friends, none of these friendships is like ours. In so many ways, you left me with the gifts only a child can present. Perhaps the greatest of those gifts have been Dan, Mark, and Ed. They have traveled a similar path as I with the coming of age and the reckoning of terms around your death. They have also traveled on a course quite different than mine. The sameness in our lives is eclipsed by vast differences, as well. We’ve remained bonded by your love and the blood vow of the solid handshake of friendship. We, too, are brothers of the heart. There was a time when I thought Dan had gone in a different direction. I thought he found peace in disenfranchisement from our circle, but I was wrong. Dan was going through his own thing and took the time and space he needed, personally, to move out of a place in his life that he chose not to subject us to. In life, people and times change, and people change within those times. Currently, it is Mark and I that are alienated from each other. That’s a story for later, though, John. As for my relationship with Ed, our bond is as solid as it has ever been, though our frequency of communication ebbs and flows. We have moments of awareness, recognition, and assimilation, and then we have moments of stagnation, span, and separation, but we always come back together from time to time, both physically and emotionally.

As I mentioned, I have had countless friendships, always attempting to recreate that special bond I shared with you so long ago, and though I have many special attachments, I have made many faux friendships, too. Adults create faux friendships, friendships that are based solely in need. They may LOOK like friendships but are shallow and fake. I have experienced some of these relationships because I was looking for something to pacify the longing for a deep, nourishing conversation about snowflakes. I have endured the pain of coming to the reality that friendships I thought were based on truth, honesty, integrity, commitment, love, and respect were fraudulent. It was our friendship that gave me the sight to know the difference. I am grateful.

So, my quest to seek out the true meaning of my life has led me far from home, far from the comfort of the white noise echoed against the backdrop of the cape's ocean waves and dunes. It has led me back, too, though. And as I grow older, my need for the familiarity of my childhood home has subsided quite a bit, but I will confess that it still grounds me. Like your existence, I know I will always find a certain comfort and truth in my visits there. Why now, John? Why do I reach out to you now? I don't know. All I can say is it feels right. I began this correspondence during a nighttime visit to Niagara Falls. Perhaps it’s the power and energy of the rushing waters that guide me, or perhaps I’m at a low point, at a time of questioning, a time of recollection and assessment of life choices and experience and of lessons learned. Maybe I smoked some good grass, too. Whatever the case, I’m now on a path of reconciliation and regeneration. So, I think it’s time to share with you the wisdom of the seasons you subtly introduced to me as we grew together all those lifetimes ago.

So, in that John of the Seasons, we begin my story of being and doing while you were here and since you’ve been gone. This is a lifetime for you, a lifetime you were not able to share with me, nor I you, until now. John, I wish I had written to you over the years. I wish, as time passed, and I grew, and the memories we shared together began to flutter through my mind like the faded images of the Zapruder film, I had taken the time to keep you up to date on what was going on in my life. I could have come to you and asked your opinions. I could have asked for advice. Mind you. I've done all right winging it. We always did, didn't we? Whether it be buying time with the trademark Hommel, What? What? I can't hear you! Or the basic, I don't know, but I think you should ask so-and-so. We always seemed to have a way of getting by, surviving, excelling, dodging, and jabbing.

I've stayed true to that form. I'm not saying it's always been a win, but overall, I get to ride in a fancy car on a regular basis. My style sense hasn't suffered much, and I get to brag about the great time spent here or there a few times a year. I've owned a few nice houses with kitchens that made the Kusses’ kitchen at the Old Brick Kiln Lane house look almost pedestrian. And I know there's much, much more to come, so I don't feel like I've done too badly. As I proof and edit my odyssey right now, I sit on the cool tile floor of this Mediterranean flat in Cyprus, overlooking a citrus grove through the wrought ironwork of the terrace. As the wind billows across the room, I think about the connectivity of so many events written about at different times. I worry if all this will make sense in the end when the only people I should worry about understanding it are you and I, my old friend. So, I guess we’ll jump around a bit. After all, that has been my life.

I have so much to tell you! In many ways, it feels like you’ve missed so many stories from the road… from me and my perspective. And then again, I know you’ve been there with me all the while! I've decided to make sure you’re in the loop now from more of an oratorical perspective. I want you to know what this life has been for me. I want you to know what this life means for me, what it might have meant for you, how strangely beautiful this world is, and how deathly scary it can be, too. I want you to come to understand the gravity of these wonderful and tragic times we live in. I'm inviting you on a new journey. I am inviting you to all the places I’ve been to over the years. Maybe you'll sit quietly, laugh like a hyena, or cry like a baby. Maybe you'll join me for a drink in a bar in Prague as I debate the pros and cons of taking a hit, or several hits, of ecstasy. Whatever you choose, know that you, John, have relieved me of the pressure of my needing to find a new best friend now. I always have you. All it took was you spraying a little mist in my face one summer night at Niagara Falls when you whispered in my ear, Chad, I'm your best friend. I have always been. So, in that, John, let’s allow this lifetime of adventures to initiate this story.

JOHN MICHAEL HOMMEL

US NAVY 2988 CI 38

(June 7, 1970 - March 16, 1991)

John Michael Hommel has a sailor hat, which has hung from a mirror in my office and served as a showpiece in the many homes where I’ve lived. This hat has crossed the ocean as John intended, though I imagine the way it traveled and with whom was quite different than he imagined it. I imagine he must have envisioned traveling the world wearing this hat, clothed in his dress whites, a handkerchief around his neck, flared pant bottoms and glowingly polished patent leather dress shoes. I imagine him standing on the deck of his ship as the salty sea mist sprayed over that ever-toothy grin, staring out into the distance, the image so real it is as if it is seared into my memory and not coming from my imagination. It is an image that will live with me. I am sure until the end of my days. The curly, mousy hair, the light pattern of freckles, the cheeky curvature of his face, and the bright blue eyes will forever meet my emotions with saddened happiness. John Michael Hommel probably handled more frogs, snakes, beetles, salamanders, and praying mantis in his short life than I will see in the entirety of mine. He awakened the seasons in my heart and kept the colors of the day as vibrant as the shades in a peacock’s plume... He had a smile that could light up a room. He could charm the spots off a cheetah. And for now, and forever more, and forever before, he serves as inspiration for the things I do, the people I meet, the mountains I climb, and the challenges I face.

Richard_Church_(Ebook_-_BK1)Paul HendricksF382023-08-25T23:39:00Z2023-08-25T23:39:00Z2023-08-25T23:52:00Z607128230730913Aspose6090171485742916.000027a35869adfb37f3bb1b6c9433046b4f0f6f7efcb71714d65e4d78fecb0f9365

CHAPTER 1

VISION QUEST

For me to get to the end, I MUST start at the beginning, John. Well, maybe not at THE beginning, but at the beginning of what we will call my 12-year odyssey. It was a muddled, confusing 12 years filled with laughter, pain, joy, confusion and what I consider most important of all: unanswered questions. Looking back while writing these words, I stop and try to make sense out of what my differing experiences have meant to me, and I’m grateful to see a process of growth. Maybe that’s why I bind this and send it off to the heavens now. There was a day, just one, there can only be one, where all this started, and it started rough and raw in 2005 with these words:

I begin this writing process with the intention of challenging all that has shaped my life to this point…

Before I left Denver for my cross-country trip back to Massachusetts and then Prague, friends gave me a great deal of reading material. While I packed my bags, considering the additional weight the books would add, I thought, Will it be important to have so much reading material? Will I be that bored? If I am, will I choose to read or choose my favorite leisurely pastime: Drinking?

As it would turn out, I soon began to immerse myself in one book. This book was a tale of two detectives that embarked on the treasure hunt of all time! I found myself riveted by every page and passage. As these two detectives searched through clues, anagrams, and other puzzles to unearth themselves from events beyond their control, I, too, attempted the same feat with my own life. I will have dug deep to unearth details about myself, my choices and experiences, and the people with whom I chose to surround myself, and hopefully, when all is written and done, I will discover I have become a better person.

As I began this journey of introspection, I thought I was on this path with no direction except my desire for a more intimate knowledge of myself. And as the thriller I read consistently offered new clues for the detectives to follow, I found myself attempting to decipher clues and symbols within my own personal treasure hunt.

Since my early days, I have struggled with the need for the approval and acceptance of others. It’s not as bad today, but in my early years, I was haunted by this need. I worried about simple things, like Who’s watching me? Why isn’t my phone ringing with somebody full of adoration on the other end of the line?

By the time I reached Prague, my need for affirmation had reached epic proportions. This was accompanied by a level of cocaine-induced paranoia, as by that time, my crew of friends and fans had been on the party train for years. It was the good days in Denver, and I was leaving there with my second of two Range Rovers and $250,000 in my pocket. As invincible and, at the same time, as damaged as I was, I couldn’t see it. I was flush with money and coming off a successful career in real estate. I had all the nice things money could buy; a 38-year-old single man with no obligations but to myself. I’m glad it wasn’t a million dollars burning up in my pocket. I think I would have been dead soon thereafter had I been endowed with that kind of money.

Have you ever found yourself so enchanted by another’s exterior that all you wanted to know was, What are they thinking? The phrase Penny for your thoughts comes to mind, as if you could just offer up some monetary compensation to solicit the deepest part of a person.

Experience has taught me that it is not that simple. Observance has confirmed this fact. We all have some parts of us that we dare not share with anyone. We all have some inner secret that, if anyone knew, it would bring us to our knees with pain and angst. Maybe we guard that part of ourselves because we feel it is what defines us as individuals. And perhaps it’s for that same reason that we want so desperately to gain intimate knowledge of the experiences of others. After all, it is infinitely easier, isn’t it, to look at the problems of others and feel superior, like it somehow negates our own issues? We can judge the lifestyles of others much more effectively than our own, and I suppose that is the reason psychiatrists and counselors are in business.

John, as I unveil and unburden all that I am and have experienced to date, as I offer up that part of myself, which I consider most sacred, I hope that any who may read this will enter my life with an open mind, spirit and heart. Feel for me, but don’t pity me. Admire my abilities, but don’t envy them, be jealous or judge. There’s just too much of that in this world. It serves no one. For I have endured too much of that already, anyway, and as so many other messengers have proclaimed over the years, We don’t share to be adjudicated; we share to enlighten.

Richard_Church_(Ebook_-_BK1)Paul HendricksF382023-08-25T23:39:00Z2023-08-25T23:39:00Z2023-08-25T23:52:00Z607128230730913Aspose6090171485742916.000027a35869adfb37f3bb1b6c9433046b4f0f6f7efcb71714d65e4d78fecb0f9365

CHAPTER 2

HOME LIFE ON HAMILTON DRIVE

The first recollection I have as a child, the first one of any consequence anyway, is from about the age of three when we moved to what would become our family home in Pembroke, New England. It was one of those sleepy little hollows where everybody knows everyone, with homegrown activities like the annual fish fry and free concerts during the early summer evenings on the town green. The year was 1969, and I remember the front door of our new house slamming closed just before hearing my father say, We’ll be back in a few hours. We have one more load in the station wagon to bring back today.

My older brother was with my father, and my mother was busy at our old home, so my sister was left ‘in charge’ of me while the others went about the business of moving. I remember a sense of concern, or maybe even fear, in my older sister at being entrusted with such a task. My father had made it clear that we were not to leave the house, under any circumstance, until he returned. He ordered my sister to lock the door behind me.

As the hours and the boredom stretched on, we filled our time by touring the house, sorting our albums, and peering out the window into our backyard, hoping something interesting would happen to alleviate the boredom. For lack of anything else to do, my sister sat down with me to sort out the family record albums. After that task was completed, we began to explore the house, my sister serving as a tour guide, pointing out each of our respective bedrooms and then the basement. Our tour ended at the back door, where we stared into what seemed, at the time, to be a vast expanse of yard, just beyond a pitiful little deck, if you could call it that much. Really, it was just the top landing of the stairs.

I spied some people in the yard, which adjoined ours at the rear, building a short wooden fence. For some reason, I found this an interesting structure and decided I would have to explore it at my earliest opportunity. There was also another building located in the backyard that my sister referred to as the dollhouse. However, this was far too big to be a dollhouse, in my opinion. Clearly, multiple people could fit into that structure, and my 3-year- old imagination cast visions of life-sized dolls, which terrified me! I decided then to have nothing to do with the dollhouse.

My first day in our new home ended with my parents bringing home Kentucky Fried Chicken, a treat that always seemed to symbolize some monumental occasion in our home. This feast was eaten in honor of the purchase of our new home and the start of our new life in Cape Cod.

A few days later, my sister and I were given permission to play in our backyard. Once outside, we saw people milling around in the adjacent yard. I also saw a little girl down by the back fence. She was busy playing with something I was unable to see, and she would dart back and forth from behind the fence into sight and back out of sight again. It sparked my curiosity, and I determined I HAD to know what was behind that fence. I began throwing my ball further and further into the yard, closer and closer to the fence. The little girl would periodically peek out from behind the fence, darting back to her sandbox, acting as if she didn’t see me observing her. While I recall so many of these details, in all my years, I do not recall how I was introduced to Maryann. But it happened because I still know that little girl, and, like myself, she is much older now and has had a little girl of her own, and that little girl has now had a little girl. Both, eerily enough, at the age of three, were the spitting image of my little girl behind the fence, who now goes by Grandma.

As time moved on and I grew, I was given more and more reign in the territory around my home, and I began to meet the other children in my neighborhood. Albeit a relatively small area of expanse we were confined to, it felt like a world offering something new in it every day. The same must have been true for my sister and brother. My sister befriended Maryann’s older sister, and they would have their little meetings in the dollhouse. They would watch us swing on my swing set, which eventually broke down, never to be replaced. My mother’s response to this was, Go play on Maryann’s swing set.

My brother would take off on his bike down the hill and around the corner out of sight like a train does when it leaves the station to parts unknown, growing smaller and smaller until it’s out of sight. I always wondered what adventures he was on while away. Soon, the world beyond my front doorstep would open to me, as well, and I could now find my own adventures.

The late 1960s and early ’70s were a different time, and in my little town, my family felt the hand of prejudice slap us in the face on more than one occasion. For all the strides we all thought we had made over the passing years, today (with the cold actuality of a reality show television star as our President after having the first black President for two terms), we may have just unveiled a truth about ourselves that nobody wants to admit exists. As I, now a fifty-year-old man, watched the returns come in, I thought, NO! The American people, many of them my friends, could not be so blind to this man’s racism! How could they have allowed him to make a successful bid to become President of the United States? How could they elect a racist president? Or do they even, in fact, understand that they have? So many of them welcome him but still feel they are not racist themselves. Frankly, the more I see this man’s actions; I’m not sure HE even understands that he’s a racist.

Given my background, I have a unique perspective on racism. Some of the most racist people don’t even know that they are racist. Racists come in many colors and cross multiple religions, economic strata, educational backgrounds, and philosophical alignments. They can be somebody you love or somebody you hate. I’m a racist. Many of my friends are racist.

Being a racist does not require you to screech, Nigger, go home! or He’s a Muslim! Kill him! You don’t have to be a Jew hater, or shoot a white police officer, or call an Asian a Nip, or call a Latino a Spic. You don’t have to hate all Native Americans because you think they are all drunks. (I put quotes around Native Americans because they are native but were never asked whether they wanted to be American. They call themselves the people or Indigenous People.) And while sexual orientation does not qualify as a race, the bigotry that surrounds the LGBTQ community is just as hateful, so I classify it as a sort of racism. All you must do to be racist is look at people different than you and think that somehow that makes them inferior. You can even like them or even think you love them. Racists don’t have to be full of hate; they can just be full of misunderstanding, assumptions, and ignorance that they are racists at all.

While my family was not necessarily the first black family to move to Pembroke, we may as well have been. Pembroke was much smaller at the time, both in population and mindset. My father often said, Everyone who lives in this town, whether they accept it or not, is just one generation removed from some ghetto, be it Southy (South Boston), Germany, Italy, or wherever.

My town was a real mixture of people who were trying to make something good for their families. I’m positive it still is. The problem my family encountered back then was that the mixture was overall homogenous. Yes, the nationalities were different, and there was prejudice among them, also. The Irish thought little enough of the Italians, the Italians could care less about the Jews, and the Germans thought they were more righteous than the whole lot. The English and Scottish, well, they considered all the rest of them barbarians. But all the while, from and for all appearances, everyone was pretty much white.

When our little station wagon of color rolled up, it must have sent shock waves through the town. It certainly did in our neighborhood. I do know we did foster a little bit of community at the same time, though. My older brother was told a story many years later about the sense of community our family brought to our little neighborhood. It seems that the word got out pretty quickly that my parents had made an offer on our home. The neighbors were in outrage.

How was it that blacks could be allowed to infiltrate such a neighborhood as ours? Don’t they know where they belong? Can’t something be done about this? They’re going to bring down the neighborhood! …All words spoken behind closed doors until somebody got the bright idea to circulate a petition. Who knows who, or how many, signed? It had no effect, anyway, no effect but to bring the different nationalities, different than our own, closer together. And if that was the result, then good. Those who couldn’t fathom living in a neighborhood with blacks eventually moved. Others stuck it out and, over the years, began to see my family as they did anyone else’s. It wasn’t easy, though. There remain some of the most trying times in my life, living within that little slice of Americana.

As I grew and became more independent, I ventured out down the hill and around the corner, just as I had watched my brother do so many times before. I found I’m sure, what he found down the hill and around the corner. And I found it more times than I care to remember, but I must care and remember it. For it is such an integral part of the person I’ve become. While my parents were mostly teaching us that there was no difference between our family and the other families, a few households recognized plenty of differences.

One early spring day, I hopped on my Big Wheel. I remember this so well, as it was the first time I took it out for a spin. It had been a Christmas present from my brother, who somehow came across it, and knowing him, it was probably stolen. The story he gave my mother was that it had belonged to a friend’s little brother who had outgrown it. The weather up until this point had proven to be too cold and inclement for Big Wheel riding. Though on this, the most glorious day of spring, the sun broke through the trees beaming through my bedroom window like a laser. After what seemed like a thousand Nos from my mother, she finally relented and said, ‘Yes, you can take the Big Wheel around the circle, but I want to see you back here in half an hour. Like all kids that age, I had little concept of what a half hour was but managed to get back to the house in enough time that my mother was fine with me taking a couple more spins around the circle. Riding around the circle was such an experience for me because there was a challenge involved. Flying down the hill at what felt like Mach 1 was as thrilling for me as it was to all the kids in the neighborhood. You must remember, these were the days when kids ran through the woods behind their homes with no fear of the unknown from a terrorist lurking behind a tree or a pedophile standing point behind a boulder. They were the wonder years." People had apple trees in their yards, and kids would climb them to search out the perfect apple for a mid-day snack. Bicycles with helmetless racers were ablaze, shattering land speed records daily. And there were cops and robber games, too… It’s funny how life can imitate art, and the reverse, as well.

Unbeknownst to me, I was a robber. I would always be a robber, even if I weren’t playing in the game. It was the only role for a black kid in an all-white neighborhood during that time in the history of Hamilton Drive. On this sunny day, as my tires burnt up the hot black pavement and I skidded around the corner in the sand by the Budak’s house, I looked behind me, and rapidly approaching from the rear were the Hart boys or whatever their name was. I had not had the pleasure of making their acquaintance yet, so initially, I thought I was getting ready to make some new friends. It’s just part of my being to assume the best in people until they prove me wrong. I’ve been proven wrong more times than I care to admit. There was something in these boys’ eyes, though. It was a crazed look, and something about the rate of speed they were traveling told me to book it! The only setbacks I now faced became blatantly obvious at this moment. For one, my speed would now be severely reduced without the incline of the hill. I had a five-house flat straightaway to cover, and if I made it through that, I’d have to come up the other side of the hill, and while it was half as steep as the side of the hill coming down the other side of the circle, it was twice as long. All I could hope for was mercy once I was caught. I’d bust my little ass trying to evade those cops, though! That, or die trying! In doing so, I would have to make sure my timing was just right for the overdrive move. You know, the one where you hop off the seat, prop the seat up a notch, grab the handles tightly, throwing one foot on the back of the platform behind the seat, and kick off with the other foot, kicking and kicking, as to push the cart all the way home. In a jam, it beats the hell out of the pedal power option. The only problem is it takes a lot of time to engage the system into overdrive. By the time I hit the Bussa’s house, I was cornered.

Now there were additional cruisers and cops. The Hart boys? No, It was two brothers who’s name now escapes me, It’s just as veil for these two little tyrants. would act as arresting officers. The other kids just sat on their bikes, encircling me, sure not to let me escape the long arm of the law. Over the next ten minutes, I was to learn a lesson and begin to see life in a way no other kid in my neighborhood would ever see or experience in their lives. I was charged with the first speeding violation and driving while black.

Then the kangaroo court took place. The defendant, referred to as Nigger, was to stand trial for being a Nigger. While the officers, now turned judges, spat and threw sand at me, the jury chanted, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger! Go home, Nigger! I pleaded, Let me go! I’ll go home!

The circle got smaller and smaller as they enveloped me, throwing more and more sand in my hair. The spit so thick on my face that I felt as if I’d been basted in honey. Spit so thick it prevented the tears from my eyes from falling down my cheeks. I peered beyond the tyrannical monsters a couple times. I could see this was being observed by a couple of adults now. One man stood on the street just beyond his yard. Another woman came to her screen door, looked, and then turned and walked back into the house beyond sight, but then, finally, a woman on the other side of the street marched over. She had long, thick dark brown hair, and she began to scream, Leave that boy alone! Leave that boy alone and go home!"

The last advice the Hart boys offered me was, You better stay on your side of the circle. If you come down here, we’re gonna get ya!

I took this threat very seriously! After ushering all the kids away from me, the nice lady came over to me and told me, Stay on your side of the circle, and don’t come over here to start trouble anymore. Crying and wondering what trouble I had started, I limped home with a broken spirit and a broken heart.

When I arrived home, my father was there. As I made it up the front steps, he and my mother stood there aghast. I had wiped most of the spit from my face during my journey home. I don’t recall what I looked like, but I know after being showered, my mother drug me into the kitchen to scrub out the remainder of the sand caught in my tightly curled Negroid hair.

Jerking my head around from side to side and scrubbing with a nailbrush, she and my father questioned me as if it were the Nuremberg trials.

I told them what took place repeatedly. The result was they agreed: I was to stay on my side of the circle. I was creating problems by going over to the other side. My side of the circle that I can remember was going to start with my yard and the little girl’s house behind mine. There, my parents knew I would be safe and out of harm’s way. Eventually, I grew tired of such a small area to play in, as all kids do. After all, Big Wheels don’t do so well on the grass or in a sandbox. The driveway might be fine, but only when there’s no car in it.

As time moved on, I began to ask why it was that the kids from the other side of the circle could ride their bikes on my side of the circle, whizzing by, calling me names, but I couldn’t ride on their side of the circle. By the time I got my first bicycle, I had had enough! I had a perfectly good vehicle and a perfectly good street to ride it on. But, because of my skin color, I couldn’t ride on the other side of the circle. I had perpetrated no crime. I had only been the victim oh so long ago. More time passed, and with each passing day, I pressed to gain my freedom to travel where I wanted in this neighborhood. I was about to embark on my own civil rights movement on Hamilton Drive!

As with any movement, there are battles waged and battles lost. There are casualties of war. There are new allies gained and lost, as well. I learned how to fight. I learned how to run, too. Although, when I won, I only seemed to win the battle and not the war. Ultimately NATO: The other kid’s parents would come to their rescue, ranting on about how I broke the peace treaty, or violated some rule of combat, or conducted some unforgivable atrocity.

Finally, there was a break. Peace talks could begin on some level, be they crude or infantile. It was as if Arafat had died. The Hart boys moved!

There was a shakeup in the leadership on the other side of the circle, and I had my chance to strike while the iron was hot. I began like a snake charmer. I offered cookies, candy, the opportunity to ride my bike, or whatever else I could to win the hearts of our little nation. I began with the girls, as any good politician would. Time passed, and most wounds healed. Eventually, I made friendships. Sometimes they were on and off again, but when they were there, they were like precious diamonds in my possession for that day, week, or month.

After the Hart boys left, I began to realize just how many kids there were to play with. In a neighborhood of about 25 households, there were 78 kids of varying ages. Monumental games of kick the can were played. Hide-and-seek games were held with the regularity of rush hour. Red Rover, Red Rover, send Laura right over was chanted in harmony throughout the neighborhood. Occasionally, I was even allowed a position within the law enforcement agency, governing the traffic on the circle.

We built forts in the woods and even started a few small fires. Match Club 77 was not only a television show; it was an eight-year-old pyromaniac’s delight. Hikes through Pee Swamp for skunk cabbage and mud-ball fights were commonplace, too. I wasn’t much of a fisherman, but occasionally, I’d go fishing at Dunn’s pond with the neighborhood crew. In the winter, when the snow would fall lightly between the barren trees in the woods, scores of us would hike over to Dunn’s pond and go ice skating or sledding on the big hills there.

Not all the kids ventured over to Old Brick Kiln Lane like I did, though. There, I found a whole other world. Eventually, on the block, I became best friends with John Hommel. I guess we were both a little quirky, and that’s where we found our commonality. He was the nature boy. He loved catching snakes, salamanders, field mice, and various other creatures. I was a few years older but still loved playing with matchbox cars and living in make-believe. When I think about it now, I wonder if it was that way because I had been so isolated from those kinds of interactions with my peers early on.

John and I were both venture seekers, though, so crossing the two lanes of Rte. 139 to get over to the river on Old Brick Kiln Lane was a walk in the park. Over there, there were hundreds of unexplored acres…Well, unexplored by us at the time. And, there was the North River, a tidal river, where in the morning, it could be muddy and murky, and in the afternoon, when the tide rolled in, the depths of the river would double or triple. Surrounded by marsh, with the green hues of the reeds and the cat o’ nine tails clothed in their soft velvety brown, the river would come to life as we broke through the deep pine-laden forest. We’d have competitions to see who could climb higher in the trees. John usually won, but sometimes, like a cat, he had trouble climbing back down. That was his spirit, though. He could run as fast as a jackrabbit into the woods, but a mile in, he’d be lost.

One day, as we strolled back up the road, fencing with maple sapling branches on our way home, we noticed a large moving van loading furniture into one of the big colonial homes. Both of us, attentive to small details, noticed and commented on the bicycles being carried into the barn by a burly-looking guy with a Texas accent. We thought: Kids! Kids with bikes, kids our age. For about a week or so, we cruised by the house to see who had moved in. One day, on our way back from the river, we spotted them. There was a boy and a girl playing in the yard.

We played it cool, though, looked, and kept walking as if we cared less. We repeated that for a few days using the same method of operation. Pay them no attention until they pay us attention first. We have the upper hand. We’ve been here longer. Now that we had confirmation that they were the occupants of the home, we had to come up with a way to meet them without appearing too eager. That was one of the codes on Hamilton Drive. Never act as if you are too interested in something or you won’t get it.

One day, John was off doing something, and I decided to give it a whirl and take a walk by the house. I think in the back of my head; I was a little happy that John was absent because it would give me the opportunity to make the first contact, and therefore, I would reign supreme in the eyes of the new kids. I cheated, though. I used a plan John and I had come up with together. We knew they were watching us, too, so whenever we saw them out playing or milling about, we’d act as silly as we could. We’d laugh and chase each other up the road to draw attention to ourselves. Then, we would get just past their barn, which sided an old stone wall, where we would dig in the stone wall to catch salamanders, yelling loudly when we caught one, I got one! He’s huge!

No kid under the age of 13, boy anyway, at that time, could resist the curiosity of a scene and statements like that. We really didn’t care too much about the girl, but it did look like she could roughhouse pretty good from what we’d seen of the two of them. So, if the girl came, we could deal with it.

As usual, I went down to the river and returned about the same time we saw the brother and sister playing on previous days. But this afternoon, I only saw the boy in the driveway, riding his bike. I immediately hurried over to the stone wall, where I was in plain sight. I grabbed one of our stashed glass jars and began looking for salamanders. It was a pretty good hoax because that wall was horrible for catching salamanders! And catching salamanders was more of John’s gig. If you really were trying to catch them, there were far better places, like the stone walls at the rear of our houses.

My ploy worked. Within minutes, over the other side of the wall peered this bushy straw-haired, blonde, blue-eyed kid. He asked, What are you doing to our wall?

Oh, shit, I thought. He’s gonna be a jerk.

I said, I’m catching salamanders, and it’s not your wall on this side. I had come to understand dividing lines pretty well by this time. Eventually, his older sister came out to back him up in the dispute. I stood my ground. They ran in to tell their mother. God knows what she said, but they came back out with curiously similar jars to mine and began hunting on their side of the wall adjacent to me. A dialogue began, and friendships budded from there. A couple of days later, I took John to meet Jay and Jennifer Kuss, and it was not long before the four of us were fast friends.

We soon became tired of the day-to-day happenings on Hamilton Drive. The Kusses always had all the toys: Dirt bikes, horses, skeet shooting machines, canoes, a motorboat, snowmobiles, and a pool. They even had a portable rotary phone! John and I had arrived!

When it was dark outside, Mr. Kuss, the burly Texan we had watched at the beginning of this introduction, would drive us back to our homes, though it really was only a five-minute walk away. We loved it, though. First, he’d drop us off in his shiny two-door Lincoln Continental, and later in the Mercedes, and once or twice in the Jaguar XJ12 or the Jenson Healy Interceptor. Once or twice, on a bad car day, Mrs. Kuss