It was the early 1980s, and I was on vacation in
Fairmount, West Virginia with my wife, (at the time) visiting a couple of old
friends. Upon our arrival the friends, Laura and Doug began to recite the many
wonderful excursions we would be enjoying during our stay, which included
camping along the great Monongahela River, exquisite dining experiences, and
just maybe, a family barbecue on Sunday afternoon.
When speaking of the
Sunday event, Laura seemed hesitant to state the exact reasons why our
attendance would be tentative, as if there were some mitigating element
preventing us from being a part of the festivities. Of course this peaked my
curiosity all the more, because I couldn’t help but get the feeling that some
aspect of her wrestling with the decision was focused upon me.
“Laura, what’s the
problem, and why do I get the feeling it has something to do with me?” I asked,
and by the look on her face my instincts were correct.
“It’s nothing,” she
snapped, in a half-hearted attempt to shut down the conversation.
After more gentle probing
on my part, she finally relented and explained her dilemma to me. Seems she had
an older brother John, who was at that time not only a member of the Ku Klux
Klan, but he was also the Grand Wizard of their local Fairmount, West Virginia
chapter.
Upon hearing this, and I
kid you not, my first reaction was; “Awesome, I’d love to meet him.”
To which she responded,
“Did you hear what I said? He’s in the Klan, and he would rather shoot a nigger
than spend two minutes talking to one. Sorry to be so blunt. Not trying to
offend and all, but that’s the truth.”
“No offense taken," I
replied. "But I’m very serious. I’d love to go.”
At this point my wife,
Doug, and Laura were all staring at me as if I had lost my mind. The subject
quickly changed to our immediate plans of camping out, and for the next
fun-filled days we didn’t discuss the barbecue again. The days zipped by way
too quickly.
Sunday Morning
I am awakened by Laura,
who poked her head in the guest room my wife and I occupied, asking me to join
her in the kitchen. With just the two of us sitting at the kitchen table, she
wanted to offer some background on her brother’s list of atrocities over the
many years he was associated with the Klan. The list included a very brutal
beat-down of a ‘nigger’ – her words, who once tried to ask her out on a date.
That, along with cross burnings to intimidate Black families attempting to move
into all-white communities, and a laundry lists of insults and physical
altercations directed towards Blacks dating back to when he was a teenager.
“You still want to go to
the barbecue if that psycho is going to be there?” she asked, at the conclusion
of the diatribe.
“Laura, it’s not the first
time I’ve spoken to guys who are in the Klan,” I replied, which took her aback.
You see folks, from a very
early age I have always been fascinated by the Klan and the concept that human
beings can actually hate people they have never met. Years before, I was the
only person of color at a party in Columbia, Maryland when the host of the
affair warned it be a good idea if I left, because as she put it, “That fucking
racist bastard and his Klan friends just showed up!” referring to three men who
had just entered the soiree.
What I found even more
shocking was that Columbia, at the time (the early 1980s), was known as a haven
for interracial dating/couples/marriages and touted as the most race friendly
community in the nation. So when my friend suggested I depart because of the
new arrivals, instead of leaving, I walked right over to the three men and
introduced myself. Mind you, I’m looking up at them. Each of the men had to be
over six feet tall.
“Hey guys, it was suggested
that I leave the party because you showed up. People say you’re in the Klan, is
that true?” I asked. They were momentarily taken aback, to the point of being
speechless. I continued, “If it is true, and you are, I would love to speak
with you to understand what you’re all about; if you don’t mind?"
After a moment of
incredulity, followed by a bit of nervous laughter, the tallest of the group
relented asking, “So, you want to know why we hate niggers, is that it?” he
said, smiling, while all three focused on my reaction to the obvious attempt
to rile me.
“Exactly!” I replied,
without missing a beat, looking directly into each of their eyes. “I wish you
could explain it to me, because I have a hard time understanding how you can
actually hate someone, if you don’t really know them. Have you met many people
of color in your life?”
Mind you, pretty much all
the eyes in that room were now nervously looking in our direction, which made
my stomach churn a little, thinking that perhaps I had made a huge mistake
engaging them.
As I stood there waiting
for a response, the fellow who spoke to me seemed torn between actually
engaging in a conversation and maintaining a superior stance against the
awkwardness caused by my intrusion. A few more moments of uncomfortable glances
and nervous laughter between the three men ended when one of the other
gentlemen tapped his buddy on the shoulder saying, “Let’s get the hell out of
here!” And they promptly exited the party. I was left standing in the same spot
feeling quite disappointed.
After hearing my story,
all Laura could do was shrug, throw her hands up in the air and exclaim,
“Alright… if that’s what you want, but he ain’t gonna talk to you. No way, no
how!”
A few thoughts occurred to
me as we made our final approach to the site of the barbecue; (the Ku Klux
Klan, a cookout, sergeant Neil Howie, and a burning effigy). What the hell had
I talked myself into?
It seemed like a real
festive group, as the smell of marijuana filled the air along with the sound of
metal clanging as the result of a lively game of horse shoes in progress, and
Merle Haggard playing on the boombox. Everywhere people were drinking, eating,
laughing, and generally having a splendid time. The entire crowd was of course,
really white with most of the folks appearing as if they stepped right out of
the 1950s, as far as hairstyles and fashions were concerned.
The house belonged to
Laura’s mom, Ms. Beatrice. Her husband, a well-known stalwart within the Klan
movement had died less than a year ago. Laura never spoke much of him, other
than to tell that which I just described. Like her brother, she had written him
off in life, and when he died she said it didn't affect her in the least bit.
She even refused to attend her father’s funeral.
The two-story country dwelling
was situated in the midst of twenty acres of wooded land. To the far end of the
clearing sat a converted school bus that appeared to have merged within the
earth and its surroundings. Between the house and the school bus, a blazing
fire roared replete with a whole pig roasting on a spit. But I could feel the
tension in the air ratcheting up as heads snapped around to steal a glance,
shocked to see a nigger in their midst. Yet for some strange reason the
negative energy swirling like a dust devil, actually had the reverse effects of
bolstering my spirit, because I knew what was about to go down, and they
didn’t.
Laura practically dragged
us around to meet a host of relatives and friends, introducing us to just about
everyone. Most seemed genuinely friendly, while a few just stood there like
deer caught in headlights with a, ‘What do I say to a nigger?’ uneasiness in
their eyes.
I watched as Laura then
disappeared into the bus for a few brief moments, only to exit with a disgusted
look on her face. (That’s where her brother must be), I figured. She was headed
towards a huge cooler filled with ice and beer, and I knew she was getting one
for her brother. That's when I made my move.
“I’ll get that,” I said,
taking the six-pack of beers right out of her hands. She stood there blinking
her eyes rapidly and moving her mouth, but no words came out. I just smiled and
headed off towards the school bus.
It was in those moments
between the cooler and the school bus that all movement on the grounds seemed
to crank down to slow motion. (Oh my God!) I thought, as I could practically
hear all the anxious thoughts of those gathered about, which felt like being
shot by a barrage of arrows with each step I took.
Off in the distance, like
an echo, I heard my wife calling, “H., stop!”
As I drew nearer, Ms.
Beatrice was just exiting the bus looking down, while gingerly taking each step
with great difficulty. She was a plump, dark-haired beauty with round, happy
cheeks, which I took as a sign of a warm heart. She finally looked up to see me
standing there, and to say she was flabbergasted would be an
understatement. Her eyes were stretched wide and she was shaking her head
with a silent, ‘No, no, no… you can’t go in there,’ I offered her a steady
forearm the last few steps.
A reassuring smile from me
made her chuckle with a knowing grin. She then made a grand gesture of stepping
aside, while offering a helping hand as I climbed the steps.
After the second step up,
I felt the last touch of her fingertips against mine. Her thoughts of good will
entered my heart as I entered the bus. The gasps of those standing near, was
the last thing I heard.
Having entered the bus,
what I saw made me think the whole idea was a huge mistake. Sitting towards the
rear, which was converted into a nice comfy living area with tables and a
kitchen, were a couple of imposing figures.
Clearly of eastern
European heritage, these were young guys, late twenties-early thirties, and I
could sense they were cock-sure and full of themselves. Dressed in
overalls, blue jeans, and wife-beater T-shirts, it was like stepping into a
scene from the James Dean movie, as they continued staring as if I had
lost my ever-loving mind. For a split second, I couldn’t have agreed with them
more.
I recognized Laura’s
brother instantly, because of his jaw line and shape of the noses they had in
common. Stopping to within a few feet of the table, with the six-pack of beers
outstretched I said, “You boys look thirsty, have a beer. Mind if I sit?”
They looked at each other
with expressions that can only be described as amazement, and back to me.
“Go right ahead,” replied
the one I had assumed was John.
I handed out the beers,
pausing to look each man in the eyes with kindness, before sitting down.
Remembering my previous encounter with members of the Klan, I decided to pull a
reverse.
“So… people call me H, and
I hear you boys don’t like niggers?” I said laughing. “Well gaddamn-it, I can’t
stand them either!”
With that, both men looked
at each other again and then burst into uproarious laughter, with Laura’s
brother laughing the hardest. He was the first to stretch out his hand to shake
mine.
“I’m John, this is my
buddy Eddie.”
John had blond hair and
chiseled features, the picture of Aryan perfection (Berliner… no wonder. They
must worship this guy) I thought. Eddie had the eyes and mouth of a straight up
killer; cold, blank and crooked, with pencil thin lips and a face so tight I
though his skin would crack. Black hair, and a long horizontal scar on his
forehead accentuated his imposing presence.
“So what don’t you like
about niggers?” Eddie asked, still laughing to himself.
“Well, a nigger by
definition is a shiftless, lazy, dirty creature that lives in ignorance,
squalor and shame. I can’t stand people like that. What kind of niggers don’t
you like?”
That’s how our
conversation began, and it lasted for more than two and a half hours. I’ve
written about this conversation in a novel under the pen-name H. P. Stanly,
titled Memoirs of An Extraterrestrial, The Negro Conundrum, which is available as a paperback and Kindle on Amazon, if you
want more details.
You see, in addition to
the conversations above, as a producer of talk shows during the heyday of the
genre – the late 1980s, early 1990s, I have literally spoken with
dozens of Klan members, Neo-Nazis, racist skinheads, and hundreds more racists
of every ilk that one can imagine. I'm not talking about simple fifteen-minute
phone conversations checking to see if a particular racist is available for an
episode. I've spent hours engaged in one-on-ones, getting to know what makes
people tick – what motivates their hatred.
What I discovered, is that
racists who originate from the south, regardless of their socioeconomic
status, seem to possess an innate sense of superiority over Native
Americans, Hispanics, and especially Blacks. I believe it's cultural, passed
down from generation to generation from bloodlines who owned property and
slaves.
Slavery in America was
different than slavery anywhere else in this world because there was never a
clause; language that provided for the American Negro slaves to gain their freedom.
And since slaves in this country were never supposed to be anything other than
someone's property, it would have been impossible for Americans to have a
foundation upon which they could ever perceive a Negro as being their
equal.
So imagine the shock White
people felt after the passage of the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863. In that
single moment in time, they were forced to contemplate the
inconceivable – the destruction of all that was holy in
America – the White man's God given right to dominate the inferior races
of earth, especially Negroes. They had kidnapped them and brought to this
country for a single purpose; to serve them. The idea of free Negroes walking
about, without so much as a by your leave, was unimaginable and abhorrent to
the sensibilities of White people. Why do you think they passed Jim Crow
Laws?
It is obvious everyone was in agreement that it was the responsibility of state governments
to take appropriate steps in maintaining a separation of the races, so Negroes
would never get the notion in their heads that they were a part of an America
that was built primarily for White people.
Of course slavery
continued in America, albeit under another name; the prison system
and chain gangs, which reinforced the cultural precept about 'Negroes
knowing their place as servants. People forget that many affluent families in
the north, south, east, and west employed Negro housekeepers, maids, butlers,
nannies, doormen, shoeshine boys–servants, on up through the 1950s, 1960s, and
1970s.
For many of the racists I
have spoken to over the last forty years, the cultural bias was patently
obvious, especially when one considers that most devout racists have never
actually engaged in a conversation with a Black person, let-a-lone met a Black
person they would have considered befriending.
A rudimentary
understanding of how the dynamics of language plays into culture explains this.
When we understand that language and culture are inextricably joined as
one, then it is nearly impossible for Black people to escape 400 years of
programing via the very words they use to describe themselves. It's just as hard for
Whites to block the whispers of racist ideas, feelings, and customs, which are a
part of American hegemony. Where do you think, White guilt comes from? The internal struggle to reconcile instinctual feelings of superiority over Black people, with the desire to embrace all people as equal in the eyes of God.
Read some of my older posts, with quotes from president
Abraham Lincoln and Roger B. Taney delineating that negroes would never be
accepted as equals to the White man, whether emancipated or not. White
privilege and consequently Black inferiority exists, because of 400-years of
programming via the very language we speak in this country, which buttresses the
notion that White people come first.
Yet, for reasons I have
desribed previously, (Blackness, the
Stockholm Syndrome, and Uncle Tom) Black people today have developed a sort
of amnesia, while preferring to re-write history, imagining there was ever
a time in America when Negroes/Blacks were not under the gun. As if Blacks
getting shot by White people or police officers is a new thing. Cell
phones merely reveal that which has been done in darkness for the last 400
years.
The only thing that has
changed dramatically over the last forty years of American history,
is the willingness of Black people to directly and tacitly participate in the
systematic extermination of millions of their own people, at the hands of each
other. They have become so damaged as a people, that they can ignore thousands
of murders in a single year, to focus all their energies on a single death at
the hands of White or Black police officers.
So we have this apparent blindness to
the desperate conditions persisting within the Black community, while embracing
a campaign demanding that White people not only see it, but embrace the
very thing Black people apparently despise more than anything else – the lives
of Black people.
Black Lives Matter came
into existence as a result of one of the most shameful, lawless, and degrading
displays by a people since the Rodney King riots – Ferguson. The idea that
they would actually have the temerity to venture out beyond the wasteland of a
neighborhood they left in its wake, preaching to anyone other than Black
people, in my opinion, is the epitome of ignorance.
Then, just when you
thought a people couldn’t sink any lower, five innocent police officers
are executed in Dallas, and Blacks decide the proper response is to flood
the internet with tweets, responses to articles, and Facebook posts praising
these deaths, and calling the shooter a hero?
To make comparisons
between this current BLM incarnation and the Civil Rights demonstrations of the
1950s and 1960s, is an insult to reason and intelligence that leaves a foul
smell hanging in the air. The only comparison I see, having lived through the
Civil Rights era, is that we are once again allowing a movement that began in
the ghettos of America, to drag all people of color into the same, soul-stealing
abyss of separation from the rest of society that helped to create this mess in
the first place. I am referring to the Black Power/Black Culture Movement, when
a people of color lost their collective minds and chose to separate themselves
from the rest of society to become a Black people. It is exactly what the elite
wanted us to do (self-imposed Jim Crow), and it has been all downhill ever
since.
Think about it; fifty
years of Black pride, Black History Studies, Black History Months, and Black
History museums and what has it all led too; an angry mob calling themselves
Black Lives Matter, raising clinched fists, while turning back the hands of
time with a self-defeating slogan. Self-defeating, because the slogan isn't
actually a positive statement that celebrates all Black Lives, but rather, it
is a plea for the lives of a small percentage of Blacks who have either been
shot, or might be shot by a White or Black police officer.
If it was truly a
statement that embraced life, then Black Lives Matter would be in cities like
Chicago, as we speak, spreading their message among those whose lives are at
risk just for being Black, in a Black neighborhood.
One thing I will tell you about the conversations I have
had in the company of the Klan members in West Virginia, and just about every
racist I have ever spoken to, is that we have finally arrived at the moment
they predicted. We stand at the precipice of a situation that could easily
escalate into the all-out race war that White racists have been dreaming about
for fifty years. And it is Black people once again, who are being PLAYED by the
elite and the MSM they control, to act out in such a way that will lead to an
even greater marginalization from the rest of society and their own
destruction. It is ironic that every time president Obama even hints at gun control, White people go out and buy guns in record numbers. Recent polling suggests
that upwards of 70% of the population believes race relations are at their worst
since the LA riots. With so many armed citizens in this country, all it takes
is another Dallas.
The solution to this
madness, is Black Lives Matter needs to stand down and deescalate by stopping
everything they’re doing in the public arena outside of Black communities.
Precious time and efforts could be spent more effectively by directly
engaging in the process of healing the very people they claim to be protesting
on behalf of – Black people. They should be just as fervent at organizing to
improve the lives of the poorest of the poor, and the illiterate within Black communities
across this country, because nothing says, ‘I’m unemployable’ like not being
able to read.
Or perhaps they could
organize a movement to stop Blacks from murdering each other. Thirty-five Blacks
will get shot, and many of them will die today... in the time it takes you to
read this essay. I wish that every time a Black person was shot by another
Black person, the main stream media would plaster the crime scene and photos of
the tragedy on every news site, twenty-four-seven, the same way they do when a
police officer shoots a Black person.
I understand the
apprehensions of BLM to take on the source of the real violence in Black
communities, when you consider that 2,000 people have been shot and 400 dead in
Chicago alone, since the beginning of the year. It is actually prudent to be
more afraid of Black people than White people who actually don’t give a damn
about race during the course of their daily lives. That is, until they can’t
get to work or pick up their children from school on time, because BLM is
stopping traffic. But someone has to help Black people who can’t help
themselves and BLM seems to have a knack for organizing. They are also
pretty brave when it comes to facing down police officers trying to do their
jobs. Perhaps that same bravery could be employed in Black neighborhoods across
this country, facing down drug dealers, and gang-bangers.
So in closing, the
solution really comes down to basic Newtonian physics; action/reaction. Violence
begets violence. End the callous disregard for life in Black communities, and
police officers won’t feel threatened and wary of being shot themselves when
they answer a 911 call.
By
Herman Williams III
