In the early days of the protests in the United States I saw an image of a sizable group of black men circling a policeman that had been separated from his unit for the purpose of protecting him until he could be removed from the area or rejoined with his unit. In my mind the guys who aided the cop knew what was at stake, they didn't need to fit into an image that many people want to believe about the black community and they didn't want to be part of an assault on a police officer in their neighborhood.
Part of my childhood was spent in the "white projects" of my home town. Dirt poor white folk. The projects were surrounded by mostly lower middle-class black neighborhoods. I was an eleven year-old when MLK was murdered and remember vividly the riots taking place in Watts and Detroit. It was an uncomfortable, unsettled time in most towns/cities with an appreciable black population. Because I had taken the initiative to reach out to a group of black youth in order to be part of their daily basketball games I was introduced to some of the reality of what their culture experienced. It started out as a naive white boy who loved basketball trying to be included to becoming accepted by a large group of black adolescents. Why? Because I treated them with respect. I knew there were differences, but it wasn't because they were black, at least not at first. My simple instincts saw them as guys, nothing more. That changed over time when they would include me in discussions at garage of one of the guys who lived nearby the courts. I sat silent as I listened to their stories and experiences. Man, did I grow up a lot that year.
Those guys looked out for me. On one occasion the games had ceased for the afternoon so we could eat dinner. As things cleared out I went to get my basketball when a bunch a white kids cornered me, they wanted to know why I was playing hoops with black guys ( I will refrain from using the actual term). It was overwhelming, it seemed like I had the choice of getting my a#@ kicked or trying to bust through the group and attempt to flee. I was backed against a wall but could see my basketball buddies hot-footing it in my direction. They made it clear that nobody should ever mess with me again or they will face the consequences.
Nobody ever did.
I don't know what was missing in the lives of the guys who cornered me but I know that there was plenty to go around and it seemingly has not gone anywhere. What I do know is that those black youths cared about me and that I needed to pay it forward.
In the intervening 50+ years I have coached black athletes and coached with black coaches. The coaches usually didn't volunteer their perspectives unprompted, but on the occasion of being alone with some of them there would be times when I would open a dialogue. Some guys were terse but a couple really opened up. Things hadn't changed.
The athletes were often a different story. They had had enough. The funny thing was the brotherhood that athletics had fostered. Just like those guys back in my neighborhood the story was the same, if trust existed you better not mess with my teammate, my brother, my friend.
We can offer our views on race relations and on perceptions of the relationship between the black community and law enforcement all we want. We would be remiss to ignore crime rates and I think my buddies back in the old neighborhood would acknowledge that there were/are problems. What is often lost in any such discussion are the societal dynamics that contribute to many in the black community feeling backed into a corner like I was. Some of it is all too real and I suspect that a percentage of it is perceived but you know that perception is often reality. We can rationalize any way we choose but the concerns are real
I saw the faces of my old friends in those recent pictures.
