In the summer of 1960 I was 12 years old. That summer our family moved from Calgary to Regina but we did it by way of Atlanta, Georgia where my father was born. We were going to visit with my father's parents who themselves would be visiting from Hawaii. We would all meet at my father's aunt and uncle's place in Atlanta.
Along the way we would visit with some others of my father's extended family. An uncle in Pittsburgh in the newspaper business, a cousin in Columbus, Mississippi who was also a minister and probably others who I've forgotten
Driving through the deep south in 1960 was an experience I've never to this day forgotten. Prisoners in the cotton fields wearing the classic black and white striped prison uniforms. The prisoners in the fields were all black men while white men on horseback with rifles perched upright on their thighs oversaw them. Every town where we stopped for food or gas or a bathroom break had nice clean water fountains for the white people to use and filthy, half broken stained water fountains for the black people or as the signs said "Colored" or sometimes "Negroes". I assumed the bathroom facilities were similar. There were no black people in the cafes or even in the office areas of the gas stations.
Once our car had a minor breakdown and we had to kill a few hours while it was repaired. We went to an afternoon movie. I don't remember what the movie was but at one point one of my brothers had to use the washroom. When he didn't come back right away my father went to find him. He was sitting in the "Colored" area of the theatre talking to a little black kid about his own age. My father quietly brought him back to where we were all sitting and later explained that he could have brought the little black kid a lot of trouble if the wrong people had seen them sitting together.
When we stopped in Columbus, Mississippi to visit with my father's cousin and his family we ended up not staying as long as originally planned. His cousins two sons had taken me for a high speed ride in their pick-up truck through "ni**ertown" laughing and rebel yelling as black people jumped out of the way. Dad became so angry that we left the next day. He and his cousin never spoke again.
Dad's uncle in Atlanta was a wealthy man who owned and lived on a small pony riding facility with a riding ring. Very lovely place. Very racist people. The man who saw to the well being and breeding of the ponies was black. He was a lovely old guy I took to almost at once. He would have been in his 50s or 60s I think then. I spent a lot of time with him down in the stables. His parents had been slaves. I remember him telling me that. I wish I could remember his name. I enjoyed his company a lot. It reveals a certain racism in my 12 year old self to say he made me think of Uncle Remus in the old Joel Chandler Harris stories and the Disney slavery apologia production of Song of the South.
I can't think of a time my father went back to the lower 48 at all after that. He went to Hawaii a few times to see his parents and siblings and their families but that was the only part of America he would visit. He was very grateful and proud to have become a Canadian by choice.
America's civil war was never really resolved. The south surrendered but the war simply became cold, went underground, became covert.
Today it's breaking hot once again.
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