Dealing With Racism at Age Seven
This picture was taken at age seven, Grade 2 in McNary, Oregon. That is me in the suspenders.I walked to School in Grade 1 & 2. After that, I had to ride a bus to school. I rode a bus to grade school in Umatilla and Jr. and Sr. High in Walla Walla, until I could get a driver's license at 16.
I am enjoying looking at old pictures, remembering and learning from days gone past. My father told me many years ago that we are only here for a very short time. I did not understand then, but I do now! Very little time!
The first time I ever experienced racism was in Grade 2. Twin brothers came to class shortly after this picture was taken. One was blond and one brown-haired. The blond called me a "nigger" about the second day after he joined our class.
I did know what that word meant, so when I went home I asked my father. My dad said that word was a very disrespectful to call anyone. My dad told me to deal with this situation the next day. He asked me to take care of it directly, by myself. He promised me he would deal with the teacher or his parents, if necessary.
In my day it was worse being called a tattle-tale, than getting beaten up. There was not anything taught about bullying in school, as there is today. And by the way, I have found, in my 72 winters, that bullies come in all colors, shapes, sizes and ages.
My father had already told me, many times, how he had dealt with this bully who had harshly held down his sister Jean and marked up her face with crayons. He jumped this bully, in a surprise ambush after school, along on the path they all walked home. So I planned my surprise ambush for the next day.
I did not say anything to anyone all day. I acted like I was afraid of him and his brother by avoiding their glance and staying out of their way. I did not want the twins and their friend, they walked home with, to know I was coming. When outnumbered, you need to have a strategy to get the advantage over your opponent and surprise is one of the best.
As soon as school was out, I ran around the big building the classroom was in, and I waited for the twins and their friends to walk by the corner of the building where I was hiding. I could hear their voices and laughter, as they got closer to me. I was scared, but I knew my father was in my corner and I was excited to make my first surprise attack.
Just at the right moment, I yelled as loud as I could and knocked the blond down. I gave my opponent some very choice and hard face and head punches. When he started crying and pleaded with me to stop, I got up and quickly took off home. His brother and friend were to shocked and scared to do anything.
When I got home, I recounted every detail to my father. He smiled and said, "Good for you Dugo, don't ever back down from bullies. When you stand up to them, you will usually find out they are cowards. If not, you will have a fight on your hands, but if you fight as hard as you can, they will not want to fight you again!" That is how my father had to deal with his racist world, growing up. I did the same for a long time, myself.
My dad told me when I went to school to tell my teacher, Miss Mueller, what the boy said to me and that my father asked me to respond the way I did. He said, with strength in his eyes, to have Miss Mueller call him if there were any questions. That was it. She had me and the other boy shake hands, and it was over for then. His brother, friend and him, never bothered me again until the Fourth Grade.
There is usually some payback when we are violent; even when for what we may believe are the right reasons. The blond boy and his twin brother did not stay long after I beat him up. He came from a part of Mc Nary called the "Siver City." It housed the construction workers and their families who were working on the Mc Nary Dam. They construction workers needed to be very mobile.
Then in the spring of my Fourth Grade, I looked up from my desk, one morning, and the two twins came walking into my classroom. They acted like they did not know me, but I know they remembered me, as I Remembered them.
One day at lunch, myself and some friends was breaking up old pipes that were shiny looking when they were broken up. This shiny metal was our treasure. I did not notice the blond boy coming into my play area until it was too late. He surprised me my smashing my middle finger on my left hand between two pipes. It hurt for hours!
He knew, and I knew, that there was no way to prove it was not an accident. We both knew he had smashed my finger on purpose, as his revenge for what I had done to him. As well, when it first happened, I looked up, and he gave me a brief smile, before walking away, before the teacher arrived, I must say that writing about and visualizing his smile, still gets my heart pumping, a little bit.
My father left work and took me to the Docter. My broken finger and my left hand put into a cast. I thought long and hard about my revenge. My only consolation that it was not my writing hand. Then, just before my cast came off, the twins were gone, never to be seen again.
I know that surprising someone and beating them up for calling you a racist name is not the best behavior, but in those days, this is how I learned to deal with bullies and racists. And many times bullies are racist.
Now, as I look back, this young seven-year-old boy had learned his vocabulary and his attitude from his parents and their friends. I do not know what this young boy had to endure in his life and even if he is still alive.
I am very proud of my son Tiger. He has never had a fight with another classmate in his life. He has a quick mind and vast vocabulary. When I asked him about being bullied, he said, " My tongue will be my sword, if I ever need protection." AS well, Tiger learned from his very peaceful mother and myself, being wiser at 56, when Tiger was born, to walk a much more peaceful path, than my younger years!
