It’s been many years since I was called a racist, once then, and never since. Oh, yes, she said it with a smile, actually, in retrospect, it was a gotcha smile, but she meant it. Huh? What? Who? Me? A racist? What am I doing here? Here was Morgan State College, 1964, the year then Cassius Clay fought Sonny Liston for the heavyweight championship of the world. Morgan State was one of America’s historic all Black colleges. I was the only white man matriculating back then. How come? Some other time. Maybe. This is about racism, mine.
Clay had not yet shed his “slave name” - that would soon come - but, even so, he surely was in white america’s face, right away, smack up in it. Ali was physically beautiful and gifted with an uncommon grace shared by few other fighters, but his mouth was titanic, the size and range of a cannon, and that cannon launched outrage after outrage into the flabbergasted faces of fight fans, white fight fans, and then white people period. He flaunted the norms. “I’m so pretty”. “Float like a butterfly". “I am the greatest”, "Sting like a bee". “Allah, Allah, Allah”. He became a Muslim. He called the round. “Ain’t no jive, down in five”. He clowned. He posed. He preened. He talked about injustice. How dare he? You’re supposed to hit the guy, get your money, shut up and go away til we call you. He hadn’t yet taken his stand on Viet-nam. Everyone was sure he was crazy, but canny, ferally smart. People - white people - hated him and wanted to see him pulverized. Sonny Liston, the current heavyweight champion, was just the beast to do it - Mighty Joe Young - dark, brooding, taciturn, lethal, shambling, not so bright. I doubt there was a white man in America who didn’t want Liston to take this uppity loudmouth apart. I’d been a boxing fan since my father took me to see Joe Louis when I was four or five. I, too, wanted Liston to destroy this fat mouthed blowhard with his dumb-ass poetry.
Clay had not yet shed his “slave name” - that would soon come - but, even so, he surely was in white america’s face, right away, smack up in it. Ali was physically beautiful and gifted with an uncommon grace shared by few other fighters, but his mouth was titanic, the size and range of a cannon, and that cannon launched outrage after outrage into the flabbergasted faces of fight fans, white fight fans, and then white people period. He flaunted the norms. “I’m so pretty”. “Float like a butterfly". “I am the greatest”, "Sting like a bee". “Allah, Allah, Allah”. He became a Muslim. He called the round. “Ain’t no jive, down in five”. He clowned. He posed. He preened. He talked about injustice. How dare he? You’re supposed to hit the guy, get your money, shut up and go away til we call you. He hadn’t yet taken his stand on Viet-nam. Everyone was sure he was crazy, but canny, ferally smart. People - white people - hated him and wanted to see him pulverized. Sonny Liston, the current heavyweight champion, was just the beast to do it - Mighty Joe Young - dark, brooding, taciturn, lethal, shambling, not so bright. I doubt there was a white man in America who didn’t want Liston to take this uppity loudmouth apart. I’d been a boxing fan since my father took me to see Joe Louis when I was four or five. I, too, wanted Liston to destroy this fat mouthed blowhard with his dumb-ass poetry.
So, I was at Morgan, now approaching graduation. Jackie Shears, a popular co-ed and I were very school chum friendly. We shared a couple of classes together, so we saw each other quite frequently. One day, as we were talking in front of the language arts building, Jackie asked me if I were going to watch the fight? “Yeah. Sure. Absolutely,” I said, “Wouldn’t miss it.” “Who do you want to win?” she asked. “Liston,” I answered. She checked me with a “gotcha” smile and said, “That’s because you’re a racist.”
Huh?
“A racist,” she repeated. That gotcha smile. Or smirk? “Me?” I’d been active on campus, walked the March on Washington, picketed to integrate a movie theater near campus, wrote a local TV show, “The Unknown American”, on Black history, produced with actors from the drama department...”Gimme a break, Jackie. What am I doing here if I’m a racist?” She just smiled and nodded her head. What the hell was this woman - This woman and I were friends! - what the hell was she talking about? She just kept on smiling. It took a while, but, finally - Flash! - I got it.
Sonny Liston was the white man’s Negro. He knew his place even if he didn’t know he knew it, didn’t roil the waters, was a murderer in the ring, a stalking beast, not pretty, not loud - a cocked weapon, unlocked fire power in each fist. Awesome, but he didn’t challenge the prevailing notions white people had about the “colored”. Muhammad Ali didn’t give a damn what you thought. His thoughts were as good as yours, and the camera was on him. He was a true original, never been anyone like him before or since. The man galvanized a population. Even Jack Johnson was not as flamboyant as Ali. Until Colin Kaepernick came on the scene, no athlete has ever been hated more...by white people.
Systemic racism. Here I was, immersed in the culture as most Caucasians never were and never would be, had been since I was a little boy hanging around my father’s tire business in Baltimore's most depressed neighborhood, yet I had no idea. It’s in the air. You breathe it in, you let it out. It’s normal. Doesn’t mean you deliberately treat anyone with disrespect. You simply have no idea. Black people don’t act like that segues into why are they acting like that which is not far from those people shouldn’t act like that. We notice a Black guy driving through the neighborhood. Does the Negro salesman with a weird haircut at Radio Shack know as much as the white guy with wire rim glasses? A Black man impeccably tailored with polished shoes, power tie, and a hand-tooled, leather briefcase draws our attention. We are aware that a physicist is Black. Black women have big butts. Subtle stuff. When I was a kid I remember a man who worked for my father shoveling the snow off the walk. His name was Gainwell Haines aka Sporty. It was freezing out there, but I remember being amazed that, since Sporty just kept shoveling away, he must not have felt the cold. And I admired him for that! Seemingly harmless, these assumptions eventually bore into the soul and puncture the spirit.
Sonny Liston was the white man’s Negro. He knew his place even if he didn’t know he knew it, didn’t roil the waters, was a murderer in the ring, a stalking beast, not pretty, not loud - a cocked weapon, unlocked fire power in each fist. Awesome, but he didn’t challenge the prevailing notions white people had about the “colored”. Muhammad Ali didn’t give a damn what you thought. His thoughts were as good as yours, and the camera was on him. He was a true original, never been anyone like him before or since. The man galvanized a population. Even Jack Johnson was not as flamboyant as Ali. Until Colin Kaepernick came on the scene, no athlete has ever been hated more...by white people.
Systemic racism. Here I was, immersed in the culture as most Caucasians never were and never would be, had been since I was a little boy hanging around my father’s tire business in Baltimore's most depressed neighborhood, yet I had no idea. It’s in the air. You breathe it in, you let it out. It’s normal. Doesn’t mean you deliberately treat anyone with disrespect. You simply have no idea. Black people don’t act like that segues into why are they acting like that which is not far from those people shouldn’t act like that. We notice a Black guy driving through the neighborhood. Does the Negro salesman with a weird haircut at Radio Shack know as much as the white guy with wire rim glasses? A Black man impeccably tailored with polished shoes, power tie, and a hand-tooled, leather briefcase draws our attention. We are aware that a physicist is Black. Black women have big butts. Subtle stuff. When I was a kid I remember a man who worked for my father shoveling the snow off the walk. His name was Gainwell Haines aka Sporty. It was freezing out there, but I remember being amazed that, since Sporty just kept shoveling away, he must not have felt the cold. And I admired him for that! Seemingly harmless, these assumptions eventually bore into the soul and puncture the spirit.
How to ferret out this stuff? It is everywhere. It is subtle. Listen. Hear. Hang around some Black people. Read something. Question authority. Keep picking away. Am I finally free of it? Of course, not. I’m never going to be completely free of it, and neither will you, so that means we need to be patient with each other and understand we have only good will.
Should I hold my breath?
Should I hold my breath?
As for Muhammad Ali, he became the single sports hero I’ve ever had, only partially due to his uncanny skill in the ring. I came to live and die by his antics. The fight with George Foreman damn near gave me a heart attack. My first year in Hollywood I was asked if I’d be interested in writing the biopic about Ali. I told my agent I’d do it for free if Ali would give me lessons in the ring. Of course, I was thrilled, although the odds were against it, and, in fact, it never did happen. I actually met him in, of all places, West Virginia, where I was teaching. 1968. Viet-nam was raging. His title had been taken; his license had been lifted. I was shocked at how big he was, so big I had to lean back to see his face. A statue. “David”. Sports writers portrayed Foreman as gargantuan, inbred, monstrous, yet Muhammad Ali didn’t give away a pound or an inch, just as big, different proportions, and, let's not forget, "Pretty". When we shook, my hand disappeared in his. However, most important of all, was his stand against the war in Viet-nam. It was a display of pure principle, an act of raw courage, rare courage. Unlike most celebrities who speak out, Ali risked everything, every single thing including his freedom, his title, his prime, his livelihood, five years in federal prison. Ali was not showboating. He believed with all his being, no less than those who bear the label, saint. He stood his ground. He didn’t cave. A very strong man.
Agree with him or not, compare the courage of a Muhammad Ali with the gutlessness of those in Congress who know better, yet still take a knee to a dangerous bunco artist whom they've watched wreaked havoc upon our nation. Ali risked everything. They risk nothing. They hide their faces and shamble away from the press while mumbling something about being late for lunch. And then there’s Lindsay Graham.
END
Agree with him or not, compare the courage of a Muhammad Ali with the gutlessness of those in Congress who know better, yet still take a knee to a dangerous bunco artist whom they've watched wreaked havoc upon our nation. Ali risked everything. They risk nothing. They hide their faces and shamble away from the press while mumbling something about being late for lunch. And then there’s Lindsay Graham.
END
No comments:
Post a Comment