In 1989 I was six years old and my family had decided to leave the suburbs of Atlanta so that my father could take a new job as a chef working at the Hilton in Ocala Florida. I remember the drive down into the pan handle state and remarking to my mother who stoically drove behind the wheel that the state looked like a giant fish. She laughed at my words and my family proceeded on its seven hour drive to central Florida. For the first few months my life was a whirlwind of an adventure. We had not yet rented a house so the Hilton allowed my family to live in one of the presidential suites. It was still summer time and the humid air coupled with the rich Spanish moss lent an air of mystique to exploring outside.
My sister and I were constant companions. She being two years older than I and willing to go places we were not allowed let us explore parts of the hotel that were mostly regulated to staff. We danced through the halls of the hotel and made infinite jests with our inflatable dinosaurs we had purchased at the hotel gift shop. I played the part of a king a few times and demanded lobster and alligator tail from the kitchen cooks. The staff would laugh and make me the exotic dishes willingly or perhaps they were fearful of my father and obliged my whims.
When my parents were not working we went to look at houses in the suburban areas of Ocala. The city at the time was over 70% white with relatively small African American, Native American, and Asian populations mixed into the demographic of this small city. We looked at old farm houses where willow trees bantered softly in the wind. My father seemed set on having a sort of idyllic life where we could have both the creature comforts of the city and the rugged life of nature. He loved to fish and some of my fondest memories of my childhood were sitting on a pier by the side of a lake or waking up to drive to the ocean to fish from the shore. After looking for houses for several months my parents decided on a three bedroom house that they rented for 450$ a month in a predominately white part of Ocala.
The house was a compromise as it allowed my father to commute to work, drive to fishing holes, and for my mother to not be disconnected from city life while still having a large backyard, pretty wood floors, and a home she could decorate. My sister and I each got our own room - something that had never happened before as in our previous spaces in both Atlanta and Texas we were confined to sharing a space. The level of new found freedom in exploring the outside of the world was amazing. My mother was very pleased as well since the school district were had moved into was considered one of the wealthier ones and it ensured my sister and I would be getting a formal education.
It was nearing the end of summer and my Aunt visited from New York. I had been jealously watching other boys zoom by on their sixteen speed schwinn bikes and my sister already knew how to ride and not fall off. My aunt decided it was time for me to ride and we spent three afternoons without a helmet and pads going down the gravel padded road until I no longer fell off my bike - but excelled. Those moments are always to be cherished as a child - when you are no longer afraid of something and manage to conquer your fear. Being able to ride the bike opened up the entire world for me.
Soon I was zooming down back roads, joining in with the neighborhood children in their games, building forts, playing cowboy and indians, endless games of tag, making pottery from the dark rich red clay that lays under much of Ocala, putting on play productions and charging the neighbors 10 cents to watch up perform the script my sister wrote, and enjoying perhaps some of the best days of my childhood. The days were long and it seemed that winter was just a small reflection of cold and not something that ever touched us. That first year I lived there I was oblivious as a child often is of the racial divide that still persists in America today.
Everything changed below the fold.
The group of children I oft played with consisted of mainly white children. My best friend from three years - five years old before we moved was a Chinese boy that lived next door to me named Kong. There were no Kong's in Ocala and Tommy Crawford, along with his brothers David and Joey became some of my closest companions. I had a tough guy friend named Billy who's dad was a local cop and my sister was pretty much our little general as she directed most of our pretend games. Also she was older than us and fearless in exploring places the boys would not go.
At the start of the next summer an African American family moved in up the block from us. They were the only black people that I remember seeing in our neighborhood at the time. Besides school I had not had much contact with African American kids. At school I was sent to the principles office to deliver a piece of paper for Mrs Andrews my first grade teacher and a large white man stormed out of a room with a black child screaming as he tried to avoid the paddle that was coming for him. I remember
standing transfixed as the paddle came down over and over again. Everyone in the room - including the parents just watched. My parents had spanked me a few times - but I had never seen anything like this before. I figured at the time whatever he must have done must have been really bad as only bad kids get spanked. It was not the last time I would see corporal punishment at southern schools but it was always a child of color that was getting hit. I never saw John who would pull girls hair down there or Michael who thought it was funny to pee in a cup and throw it on people on the playground there.
Now the family who moved up the block from me had a little boy around my age named JayJay. I invited him to our games without a second thought while other kids in our clique looked at me as if I was weird. I just wanted to play and JayJay was really bad ass at popping wheelies on his bike and fearless about going up ramps that I shunned. We became friends and eventually the other children began to accept his presence as a matter of fact. It did help that when one of the Veckio twins who were my arch enemies from eight blocks over called JayJay a nigger I jumped off my bike - ran up to him and punched him in the face. They would only bother us later or in the woods but our stomping ground was large enough that my friends and I could avoid them at all costs.
One day JayJay's father who I believe was named Mr. Johnson knocked on our door. It was morning and my father had already left for work. Mr. Johnson seemed troubled and politely asked to come in. My mother had had his wife over for tea and to chat with the other moms as she was lonely during the day and the company helped with her own problems. Walking into our living room Mr Johnson said "Mrs Hill, my car has broken down today. Would you be able to give me a lift to work for the next few days until I can get it fixed?" My mother replied that of course she would be willing to help and that she had time now before having to drop my sister and I off at school.
So the four of us packed into our little grey Honda civic and started scuttling down the road. Mr Johnson sat in the front seat of the car. He was a tall man, or maybe I just remember all adults as being tall, and had rich dark skin. He was partial bald in the front with a receding hair line and was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. My friendship with JayJay had extended to me being invited over for outdoor barbeques where I hungry devoured all the food that was offered to me at the amazement of some of their family members. "How could a little boy eat so damned much?" I remember Mr Johnson saying. Our car sped along some of the side roads until my mother pulled us onto the highway. All of our seat buckles were fastened tightly and we listened to one of the local radio stations for traffic advisories.
As we were driving down the highway - at or below the speed limit - suddenly we heard a loud blaring sound of a police car. I craned my neck backwards at the sound as it was obnoxiously close. Surely it must be going after some bad people or something like that. My mother continued driving as if paying it no mind but the po
lice car went directly behind her at that point and over the loud siren speaker heard "PULL OVER YOUR CAR TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD." My mother who is a small woman wearing large taped 1980s styled glasses pulled over to the side of road. The car bumped along the gravel and came to a shuddering halt. Mr. Johnson clasped his hand in front of his stomach as I looked forward into his passenger side seat. I was directly behind the drivers side and saw a white police officer approach our car slowly with his hand on the hilt of his gun. What did we do wrong? Why were we being stopped? I put my hands on the window and looked up at the officer coming to my mothers side.
"Roll down your window slowly mam" the officer said in a thick southern flordian accent." The window rolled down slowly and the officer bent down further and looked in the back seat. Both my sister and I waited patiently - thinking my mother was going to get a ticket or something. "Is everything ok here?" The officer asked with his hand still on his sidearm. "Everything is fine sir" my mother replied. Mr Johnson remained with his eyes forward, hands folded, and sat silent under the gaze of the police officer. "You sure everything is alright here?" the officer said again. "Yes sir. It is." "I will need your license and registration now." My mother produced the documents and handed it to the officer who then left us to go back and run my moms plates. When he was away Mr. Johnson broke his silently saying "I'm so sorry, this is my fault." My mom said "Hush you did nothing wrong. We will be going in a minute or two anyway."
That proved to be wrong as the officer kept us waiting in the car for thirty minutes before walking back. Without addressing my mother he tapped on my window. "Crack the window down son." I remember being ordered to do. I obliged as police officers were always to be respected - the people I should turn to if I was lost or needed help. My sister and I looked at him as he poked his head into the backseat of our little honda and said directly to us. "Ya'll seem scared. Are you sure everything is alright here?" The officer had never yet addressed Mr Johnson. It was almost as if he didn't exist in this situation. "Mrs Hill was just giving me a lift to work
cause my car broke down." Mr Johnson said. The officer suddenly looked infuriated and yelled
"WAS I TALKING TO YOU YET SIR??" I reached across and gripped my sisters hand. She took mine in hers and for the first time we actually were scared. Mr. Johnson said earnestly "
I'm sorry sir, just gonna be late to work now." This upset the officer more but he removed his head from inside the Honda and came back to my moms window. He handed her the insurance card and her license back. "
Now I'm going to have to give you a ticket for speeding, and for changing lanes without signalling." My mother was about to protest when Mr Johnson said "Cecilia, it's ok." The white man who was an officer then wrote my mother the two tickets and let us go. We drove in silence the rest of the way there. Mr Johnson gave my mother money later for the tickets but didn't ask again for a ride to work.
It was at that age, in spite of being half Hispanic myself that I became aware that people would treat my mother, my sister, and myself differently because of our light skin. It is with this memory in mind that I watched that six year old African American child get out of the car with his hand raised. It broke my heart that over twenty years later children will still experience this fear of the police. My subsequent experiences with the wall of blue has only reinforced my mind that they are no longer an force that serves and protects, but enforcers of racial prejudice and the economic doctrine of the 1%.
I remained friends with JayJay and his family till we moved to New York two years later but I never forgot this moment and the look on Mr. Johnson's face as the police officer spoke to us..
Yes..white privilege is real. Hands up - Don't shoot.