ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Friday, November 29, 1996 TAG: 9611290008
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A11 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: SHERREE TANNEN
I REMEMBER clearly the first time I heard the "N" word. I was 9 years old, growing up in a small town in the mountains of Virginia, and it was 1964.
"Why don't you ask Howard Wayne why his skin is so funny?" the destroyer of my innocence prompted. "Why don't you call him a nigger and see what he does?"
I did not do as told. Even in my 9-year-old mind I knew that this was wrong. I knew that it was wrong because I had been taught it was wrong.
But that day I learned the power of words, saw their power to instill irrevocable sadness in my friend's face as the racial epithets were hurled at him, like arrows to the heart, by my cohort. I felt shame. Deep, deep shame.
For, you see, Howard Wayne was my friend. We played hide-and-go-seek together. We laughed together. We ate ice cream together. And his sister, Margaret Ann, was my mother's friend. And his mother, Inez, and my grandmother had a bond of love and respect that transcended law, culture, custom and the racial slurs of small minds.
The African-American community in my town lived on Railroad Avenue. As the name implies, they literally lived on the wrong side of the tracks. But the remarkable thing was that white people lived there too - for a couple of centuries.
The community was founded by a group of freed slaves. Houses were built along the banks of the river. For generations, white and black ate, worked and worshipped together in the day-in, day-out business of living that truly dissolves racial barriers.
In the late 1970s, a flood forced the relocation of the entire community. Homes were demolished and all of the families moved away. Today, a park stands where the community once lived. The only building remaining is the old church.
This past fall a reunion was held. I received an invitation miles and light years away in my new home of Florida. I had not maintained close contact with those forgotten people of the past. In the intervening years much had happened: the Rev. Martin Luther King's assassination; the resurgence of Neo-Nazism; the politics of hatred spawned by Louis Farrakhan; the lost hopes and dreams of our country; and the deaths of my grandmother and mother.
I drove 10 hours. Drove home. And in that long drive, I remembered. They had all given me so much. Inez had cared for me as a baby. Her brave, black face was a part of my very being. My grandmother had taught me compassion. She had worked tirelessly for years to outwit Jim Crow laws in the Townhouse Cafe, her restaurant. And most important, my mother had taught me not just to say, not just to think, but to do, in her lifelong, untiring work for the disadvantaged. Together, as a community, the residents of Railroad Avenue had given all of us who had the privilege to come of age under their tutelage the most precious gift of all: freedom from prejudice, bigotry and hatred.
The day of the reunion arrived. I approached in apprehension. I had always gone to the black community with my mother. This time it was up to me. Would I be accepted?
I did not see anyone that I recognized. We, members of a younger generation, eyed each other suspiciously through the broken dreams and promises of several decades.
Finally, in the distance, I spotted an old face. I approached timidly, my 9-year-old niece holding my arm.
"Who are you?" the ancient voice asked from beneath a wide-brimmed black straw hat that partially covered her face. I noticed how her skin was smooth, dark and beautiful.
"I am Mattie Blevins' grandaughter, Maxine Rogers' daughter," I replied, trembling, fearing that 200 years of our town's history might vanish with her next word.
"Then you're a friend of mine," she smiled, hugging me. "You're a friend of mine."
The next morning we all attended worship service in the old church that had been largely founded by a freed slave, George Washington Lomans. His aging daughter, Miss Floreda, led parts of the service. A young minister spoke with wisdom and courage against the voices of hatred in both the black and white communities. We sang together. We held hands. We prayed together.
On the way home, my niece rode in silence, the experience taking form in her young mind. "I like the way we sang `Amazing Grace,''' she said. "I really do."
She was looking out the window, watching the moving scenery. "You know what you must do, Mattie?" I asked her, taking her small hand in mine. (She was named for my grandmother.) "If you ever hear the word `nigger,' you must tell the person who says it that it is wrong. Very, very wrong. And that they must not say it."
She pulled her hand from mine and turned to me suddenly with a puzzled look on her face, the word conspicuously absent in her upbringing by my sister and her husband.
"What does that mean?" she asked. "Is it a swear word like Mommy tells me not to say?"
I threw my head back and laughed with absolute joy. "Yes, sweatheart," I smiled. "It is a swear word. A very bad swear word."
At that moment the lives of my mother, my grandmother, of Inez and Miss Floreda, and of all the residents of the Railroad Avenues in this land assumed meaning.
I am proud. I am proud of my family. I am proud of my town. I am proud of this torn and turbulent nation that allows forgiveness and hope.
It happened one Sunday morning in a small town in the mountains of Virginia. It could happen in your town, too.
Sherree Tannen of San Mateo, Fla., grew up in Chilhowie in Smyth County.
LENGTH: Long : 103 lines ILLUSTRATION: GRAPHIC: graphic by MATT HARRINGTON Los Angeles Timesby CNBSyndicate