My first job out of college was working as a cub reporter for the City News Bureau. This was like a minor league Associated Press, covering every little incident in King County, thus acting as a scouting service for the big papers who therefore didn't have to commit a more expensive reporter of their own. We tended to things like the City Landmarks Commission, which determined important issues like whether the addition of an awning would despoil an otherwise 'pristine' example of a dingy, 1920's meatpacking warehouse.
I did well enough to work my way up to the weekend evening beat covering not just an area police headquarters, but the main headquarters itself, at 1121 S. State. At that time, I always thought the placement of this building was the equivalent of a fort in medieval times, situated at the outpost of 'safe' territory, standing ready to repel invaders. As a white boy growing up on the Northwest side, you may not have known a lot about the city, but you knew that you didn't voluntarily roam south of Police Headquarters.
Covering this building was an OK beat on weekdays, when the building was full. It was a graveyard on weekend evenings, when all of the police brass was out on the town.
But one Saturday night, there was some ongoing crime that needed attention, so I didn't leave until about 2 am. I walked down the steps underground to the subway platform, and it was the first time I had ever seen it absolutely deserted. The only sound was the soft 'whooshing' of some train a couple of miles away. I could hear myself breathe--and nothing else.
Until that sound came. Footsteps. A single set. Walking down the same marble stairs I had come d0wn a minute or two before. I didn't dare turn to see who they belonged to, so I sat on the bench, staring at the tracks.
Slowly, they came closer. And closer. And then, I realized this someone had sat down right next to me. So close I could smell the booze on his breath. So I finally turned. And sure enough, it was a large black man. Looking right at me. I couldn't detect the weapon immediately, but there was something tucked under his arm. I couldn't help but thinking, 'here I am, literally steps from police headquarters, and this is happening to me.'
He just looked at me for a minute, and then he said softly, "hey, man, you know what a lesion is?"
"A what?"
"Lesion--something like that. You know anything about it?"
My brain raced. "Well, yeah, I think it's a cut...or a scar--or something."
We both paused. Did he intend to inflict a lesion--or several of them--on me?
Sure enough, he reached under that arm. But what he pulled out was not a weapon, but a long, large manila envelope. And from it, he extracted a single X-Ray. "Doc says these are my lungs, and this here is a lesion." He pointed to a dull white spot.
I said I didn't know what that was. I suspected it wasn't good news, but it didn't seem responsible to hazard a guess.
"OK, well thanks," he said, and he stood up and walked a few steps away, where he remained until his train came, taking him...and his lesions...to the southside.
Mine finally came and I boarded, in the opposite direction.
But from that day, I could never quite envision the southside as quite so hostile.
diderot
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2 comments:
When I was in elementary school, I lived a very sheltered life on an Air Force Base in Oklahoma. Everyone in my school looked just liked me. One day a black girl arrived. She sat next to me in the classroom. I was mesmerized and had no idea how to talk to her-she looked different, so she must be different. Her name was "Chandra" but all of my friends had names like Diane, Kathy and Sue. I remember asking my parents about Chandra. They told me she's probably just like you, why don't you ask her to join you on the playground? I did and of course learned that my parents were right. I wish more parents would teach that lesson to their kids. If my parents had said something sarcastic or had even been non-responsive, I might have let my uncertainty stop me. As I grew older, that's one thing I learned to appreciate about the military--it brought together different races. When I met a friend in 9th grade (who was also from a military family) and we hit it off, it never occurred to me that we shouldn't be friends because she was black and I was white. We became life long friends. Some of my extended family worried about the friendship--what if I married a black guy? Wasn't having a best friend who is black a slippery slope toward that inevitable outcome? Fortunately, my parents stuck up for me and we're still best friends 36 years later. I know that there is still a lot of racial tension in this country, but I believe that things are improving. I know that my own daughters would never even think of asking me about the kids in their class who are african american, asian, arab, hispanic. They simply look at them as friends.
I like the story, Dad. It captures exactly that other side of heart that usually gets buried beneath first reactions of fear. Thanks for sharing that. I hope it makes more people think twice.
Love,
Andy
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