By Mark Reed
Being Black. How can a white man in the South, much less anywhere else, know what it is like – really like – to be black in America? It may not even be possible. Sure, we can say that we understand their pain, their frustrations, and their anger – but really understand? I don’t think so.
I grew up in the 1940’s and 1950’s in an average middle class white family in Smyrna, Georgia. The Deep South. There were no black children in my neighborhood, much less in my schools. In fact, it was 1964 when I was a freshman in College at the University of Georgia before I ever had a class with a black person, and even then they were few. There were no blacks that lived in the City Limits of Smyrna – the Smyrna of my youth. They mostly lived in Davenport Town, that small enclave just east and outside the City Limits. My memory of Davenport Town of that time is limited to brief visits in my mother or father’s car to pick up or take home our black maid, Mary. She was the only black person I knew when I was a young child. To tell the truth, I never thought of her as black or as a different color from me until later in my childhood, probably from hearing things said by other children. I loved Mary and she loved my family and me. She was more than a maid. She was a part of the family. She named her son, Mark, after me, and some years later he tragically died at a young age.
The details are fuzzy in my mind, all these years later, but I remember coming home from school one day and finding Margie, another black woman, waiting for me in Mary’s place. It seems that Mary couldn’t stay with us any longer for some reason, and she sent her cousin, Margie, to take her place and “look after her white folks.” This was about the time that my mother experienced her first fight with a brain tumor (the one that didn’t kill her). After mother’s operations, it was some time before she was able to participate in raising three young children, and even then it was limited. Margie became our “black mommy,” or “Nanny” as they call it today.
I can remember from a very early age my father speaking to us about race relations between the blacks and whites. He was an unusual man in a lot of ways, but most definitely on his views, as a white man growing up in the South, on how to treat the blacks. Let’s say that his views did not mirror the general opinion of the majority of the population at the time, as far as race went. He told me that when he was a child, growing up in Smyrna in the 20’s and 30’s, many of his playmates were the little black children from Davenport Town. He and they were just kids. No difference, really. Children seem to be color blind up to a certain age until the views of their parents or peers creep into their consciousness. I believe that those who we are around are the ones who shape our views of the world and the people in it. Children have a certain innocence, at least until it is corrupted by others.
Dad always said that there were good black people and bad black people – just as there were good white people and bad white people. He said to judge a person on who they were and how they acted and treated you – not on their color. As I said, his views did not mirror those of the majority of people of the time.
One of the things I am most proud of about Dad had to do with his work. In the early 50’s, he formed a partnership with “Hoot” Gibson, a past and future Mayor of Smyrna. They acquired a large tract of land adjacent to Davenport Town and developed the first new “black” subdivision in Cobb County – Rose Garden Hills. He and “Hoot” built nice single-family homes for black families. I have the old 8mm film Dad took of the construction activities and homes being built. There is no sound, only the flickering images. There is this one scene, in particular, I really love, of this young black couple coming to look at the new homes and picking out the home they bought. I wish I knew their name. By developing this nice subdivision for the blacks, Dad and “Hoot” were arguably the most hated white men in the county in certain circles. They had the temerity to build houses as nice or nicer than many white families lived in. But the thing about this particular endeavor that really rings a bell, for me, is the fact that in addition to building these nice homes for the blacks, they also were responsible for a first class elementary school being built for the black children of the community – Rose Garden Hills Elementary. With the advent of desegregation some years later, Rose Garden Hills Elementary ceased to be used as an elementary school, but the building was taken over and used for various daycare and other functions for the benefit of the community. I’m proud of this contribution my father made to the black community. I doubt if many today, or any for that matter, are even aware of this little sidebar of Smyrna history, but my family is.
I remember with crystal clarity the time he told me, “You know, if I had been born black, I’d be dead today. There is no way I would have been able to accept the way they are treated or spoken to.” He also made it absolutely clear that the use of the “N” word in our home was forbidden. If it were to have escaped my lips in his presence, or he heard that I, or any one of us children, had uttered it, we would not have been able to sit down for a week. I must admit that in my life I have used that word a time or two, forgetting for a moment my father’s rule, but when it was said, I remember feeling a total disgust with myself for having done so. Some things we do because of whom we are around, as I mentioned earlier. Even so, there is no excuse. To this day, when I encounter someone who uses it, and generally it is someone who is from my father’s generation, it never fails to shock me and make me feel a discomfort that is hard to describe.
I remember one time at home, before I was a teen, when I was chanting a little rhyme that a lot of children used, with varying words, “Ennie Meenie Minee Moe, Catch A N—– By The Toe.” I don’t remember the context of why I was using that rhyme, but I remember clearly that when the word left my mouth, I looked up in horror to see Margie standing across the room looking at me with sad eyes. I don’t believe that I had ever been as embarrassed before or since. I was so ashamed. I told her I was sorry and cried. She gave me a hug and told me it was OK and that she loved me. That made me cry all the harder. Why is it that we hurt those we love and care about? My father never knew about this or the other occasions I used the word. I’m glad for that. Not because of the punishment that would have come when I was a child, but for the disapproval and disappointment that he most surely would have felt.
Michelle and I tried to raise our children to be colorblind. To treat all people the same way they themselves would want to be treated. The “golden rule.” I believe we have been successful in that regard. In fact, one of Bill’s best friends in Middle School was a black boy. The color made no difference to him. The same holds true for Lew. They have grown up to be men of character who judge their fellow men for the content of their heart, not the color of their skin.
We live in a tumultuous time today. Race relations, which had improved over the years, seem to have fallen back to a time of hatred and distrust on the part of many blacks and whites. The racist “race card” is played on people for innocent remarks, or as a way to attack someone. I am hopeful that this too shall pass. I have had black friends over the years, and have some today. My pastor for many years was a black man. My ministry has been to black people in Haiti. We all have to get past the color thing and concentrate on the human thing. We are all human.
I have had several recent interactions with people of color in the last week, with each being enjoyable and friendly. Let us focus on and build on such as these. There is hate being foisted upon us by those who want there to be division and conflict. Ignore it. Look to the heart. Yours and others.
Missing the Mark 
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