Tales of Idahell Part 2; Fear and Loathing in Oklahoma

Most of you will probably go your whole, long lives without encountering true racism. I am not talking about calling someone "black" instead of "african-american", or walking on the opposite side of the street when you see someone of darker skin tone then you. I'm not even talking about telling racial jokes. Those things-while wrong, don't come close to real racism. I'm talking about true hatred for someone because their skin color differs from yours.

As I said, I've lived most of my life in the south, but encountered very little racism. People might be a bit distrustful, or even downright rude, but even the worst racists I've met in Texas were devoid of true hatred for those who were different. Idabel was a bit more traditional. Down there, the Civil War (rather, the War of Northern Aggression) never ended, and the cause of all their current economic/social/and physical woes is either the blacks, or the gays.

Now my parents did a good job of raising me to believe all people are equal, and not to mistreat someone based on their skin color. However, my parents were the exception, rather than the rule in Idabel. A confederate flag waved from most windows, and a black man in Idabel was about as likely to receive justice from the law as Uwe Boll is to make a decent movie.

One of my friends at daycare was a little white boy named Kenny. Kenny was pretty much the typical Idabel kid; ignorant, racist, and headed towards an early high school drop-out and death by liver failure at 40. Still, Kenny was around my age and he owned his very own .22, so by my logic as a six year old, he was awesome.

We'd been friends about a year before my mom finally agreed to let me spend the day over at his house. Kenny came to daycare every week with a new and fascinating bruise from his father, whom he loved with fanatic devotion despite it all. Kenny's dad, for reference, was one of the town's many drunks and a card-carrying member of the Klan (Or so Ken said, I had no fucking idea what the Klan was in those days).

My mom dropped me off that morning, I think it was a Saturday, and he immediately took me into his house. The Kenny-family-residence bore an eerie resemblance to the McCormick residence in South Park; outside, the olive-green paint was peeling off of the shoddy aluminum siding. There were several holes on the outside structure, caused by time or drunken rednecks launching firecrackers, and I clearly remember one of the shattered windows covered with duck-tape and a trash bag. Out in the pitted and overgrown driveway, was a brand new jet black Ford truck. It was a standard Idabel house.

We stepped inside, threading our way through the carpet of beer bottles and shell casings, and said hello to Kenny's mom, who was laying sideways on the couch, watching soaps and drinking what was either water, or vodka. Ken's dad wasn't home, he was working his day job at the Tyson Chicken factory (which employed about 80% of Idabelians). Ken lead me back to his dad's room and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "Do you wanna see something really cool?" I nodded. Of -course- I wanted to see something cool.

He opened the door to his parent's room. It was like the rest of the house; faded, filthy, and strewn with empty booze containers and less savory detritus. I wasn't sure what Ken wanted to show me, but I was certain it was some bad-ass gun his dad owned, or maybe a sword. With the excitement Kenny was showing, it just HAD to be something cool. With the surprise built up in my mind, it's understandable I was disappointed with what I saw.

It was -clothing-. And not even a zoot suit or anything. It was a long white robe, with a weird looking hat folded above it. It looked like the kind of thing choir members wear to church to me. What it was, Kenny explained to me, was his daddy's uniform. Kenny's father was in something called the Klu Klux Klan, a name that seems silly to me then and now. When I asked Kenny what they were, he said they were a group of patriots fighting for white freedom. Ken told me, "the niggers are the reason everything sucks so bad here. When we get rid of them, things will be better."

Now, at that age, I had no idea what the word nigger meant. I'd heard it many times in passing from people that would enter my parent's doughnut shop, but I had no idea what it could possibly mean. I wanted to ask Kenny, but the way he was going on it sounded like a nigger was something everyone should know, and revile. I didn't want to sound like a loser, and played along. Kenny happily continued to rant, and told me that his dad had bought him the .22 so that when, "the next war came, I'll be ready to kill me a nigger."

After a few minutes, I started to grow rather uncomfortable with Kenny's fervor for the subject, and suggested we go shooting. He thought this was an excellent idea, and we went to his room to grab his gun. It wasn't anything special-just a single-shot .22 bolt action rifle, but it was a real gun and thus awesome. Kenny kept the gun under his bed. The floor of his room, I should point out, was also strewn with empty beer cans. Like father, like son.

We went out and shot at cans and birds for a couple of hours, before my mom picked me up to go home.

That next Monday, I was telling everyone who would listen about how Kenny and I had gone out shooting. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world, and most of the other kids agreed. B heard me talking about my weekend, and went over to talk to me about it. She asked me what we'd done, and I told her we'd gone shooting. My obvious excitement over it must have tickled her because she giggled and asked me if it was my gun or his we'd been using.

"It was Kenny's!" I told her, "But I want my parents to get me one for Christmas so I can shoot a nigger too!"

It would be absolutely impossible for me to regret saying anything half as much as I regret saying those words to B. The poor woman looked like someone had punched her in the mouth, and I swear I saw her eyes well up, although she didn't cry. My parents and grandparents were some of the only white folks in the entire town that weren't raging racists, and she loved us for it. I, and later my baby brother, were like second children to her. Hearing me say that must have hurt more then I can still comprehend.

I don't have a good excuse for saying that to her. All I can say is that I had no idea what the words meant; Kenny had said it, so I said it. That's not a very good excuse, and even as a little kid I should have known better, but there you have it.

To her credit, B didn't haul off and smack the everliving shit out of me, though she'd have been more then justified in doing it. Instead, she took me by the arm, sat me in my grandmother's office, and asked me if I knew what that word meant. I admitted that I didn't, and told her I'd heard Kenny say it and thought it must have been something bad.

B explained to me what the word meant, that it was a terrible insult and a very cruel term for black people. As soon as she explained it, I cried to her that I hadn't known what it meant, and that I was sorry for saying such a terrible thing. She hugged me and told me she understood, and forgave me. After that, we talked a little more about what I'd[i] seen at Kenny's house, and then she let me go out and play again.

I suppose that's not as interesting as the last one, but it was one of the more formulative moments of my young life. To this day, I haven't told my parents about that incident; I'm still ashamed of saying it.

[i]