In 1960, though, my grandfather had not yet been tested; the disappointments would come later, and even then they
would come slowly, without the violence that might have changed him, for better or worse. In the back of his mind he
had come to consider himself as something of a freethinker-bohemian, even. He wrote poetry on occasion, listened to
jazz, counted a number of Jews he'd met in the furniture business as his closest friends. In his only skirmish into
organized religion, he would enroll the family in the local Unitarian Universalist congregation; he liked the idea that
Unitarians drew on the scriptures of all the great religions ("It's like you get five religions in one," he would say). Toot
would eventually dissuade him of his views on the church ("For Christ's sake, Stanley, religion's not supposed to be
like buying breakfast cereal!"), but if my grandmother was more skeptical by nature, and disagreed with Gramps on
some of his more outlandish notions, her own stubborn independence, her own insistence on thinking something
through for herself, generally brought them into rough alignment.
All this marked them as vaguely liberal, although their ideas would never congeal into anything like a firm ideology;
in this, too, they were American. And so, when my mother came home one day and mentioned a friend she had met at
the University of Hawaii, an African student named Barack, their first impulse was to invite him over for dinner. The
poor kid's probably lonely, Gramps would have thought, so far away from home. Better take a look at him, Toot would
have said to herself. When my father arrived at the door, Gramps might have been immediately struck by the African's
resemblance to Nat King Cole, one of his favorite singers; I imagine him asking my father if he can sing, not
understanding the mortified look on my mother's face. Gramps is probably too busy telling one of his jokes or arguing
with Toot over how to cook the steaks to notice my mother reach out and squeeze the smooth, sinewy hand beside hers.
Toot notices, but she's polite enough to b*** her lip and offer dessert; her instincts warn her against making a scene.
When the evening is over, they'll both remark on how intelligent the young man seems, so dignified, with the measured
gestures, the graceful draping of one leg over another-and how about that accent!
But would they let their daughter marry one?
We don't know yet; the story to this point doesn't explain enough. The truth is that, like most white Americans at the
time, they had never really given black people much thought. Jim Crow had made its way north into Kansas well before
my grandparents were born, but at least around Wichita it appeared in its more informal, genteel form, without much of
the violence that pervaded the Deep South. The same unspoken codes that governed life among whites kept contact
between the races to a minimum; when black people appear at all in the Kansas of my grandparents' memories, the
images are fleeting-black men who come around the oil fields once in a while, searching for work as hired hands; black
women taking in the white folks' laundry or helping clean white homes. Blacks are there but not there, like Sam the
piano player or Beulah the maid or Amos and Andy on the radio-shadowy, silent presences that elicit neither passion
nor fear.
It wasn't until my family moved to Texas, after the war, that questions of race began to intrude on their lives. During
his first week on the job there, Gramps received some friendly advice from his fellow furniture salesmen about serving
black and Mexican customers: "If the coloreds want to look at the merchandise, they need to come after hours and
arrange for their own delivery." Later, at the bank where she worked, Toot made the acquaintance of the janitor, a tall
and dignified black World War II vet she remembers only as Mr. Reed. While the two of them chatted in the hallway
one day, a secretary in the office stormed up and hissed that Toot should never, ever, "call no n***** 'Mister.' " Not
long afterward, Toot would find Mr. Reed in a corner of the building weeping quietly to himself. When she asked him
what was wrong, he straightened his back, dried his eyes, and responded with a question of his own.
"What have we ever done to be treated so mean?"
would come slowly, without the violence that might have changed him, for better or worse. In the back of his mind he
had come to consider himself as something of a freethinker-bohemian, even. He wrote poetry on occasion, listened to
jazz, counted a number of Jews he'd met in the furniture business as his closest friends. In his only skirmish into
organized religion, he would enroll the family in the local Unitarian Universalist congregation; he liked the idea that
Unitarians drew on the scriptures of all the great religions ("It's like you get five religions in one," he would say). Toot
would eventually dissuade him of his views on the church ("For Christ's sake, Stanley, religion's not supposed to be
like buying breakfast cereal!"), but if my grandmother was more skeptical by nature, and disagreed with Gramps on
some of his more outlandish notions, her own stubborn independence, her own insistence on thinking something
through for herself, generally brought them into rough alignment.
All this marked them as vaguely liberal, although their ideas would never congeal into anything like a firm ideology;
in this, too, they were American. And so, when my mother came home one day and mentioned a friend she had met at
the University of Hawaii, an African student named Barack, their first impulse was to invite him over for dinner. The
poor kid's probably lonely, Gramps would have thought, so far away from home. Better take a look at him, Toot would
have said to herself. When my father arrived at the door, Gramps might have been immediately struck by the African's
resemblance to Nat King Cole, one of his favorite singers; I imagine him asking my father if he can sing, not
understanding the mortified look on my mother's face. Gramps is probably too busy telling one of his jokes or arguing
with Toot over how to cook the steaks to notice my mother reach out and squeeze the smooth, sinewy hand beside hers.
Toot notices, but she's polite enough to b*** her lip and offer dessert; her instincts warn her against making a scene.
When the evening is over, they'll both remark on how intelligent the young man seems, so dignified, with the measured
gestures, the graceful draping of one leg over another-and how about that accent!
But would they let their daughter marry one?
We don't know yet; the story to this point doesn't explain enough. The truth is that, like most white Americans at the
time, they had never really given black people much thought. Jim Crow had made its way north into Kansas well before
my grandparents were born, but at least around Wichita it appeared in its more informal, genteel form, without much of
the violence that pervaded the Deep South. The same unspoken codes that governed life among whites kept contact
between the races to a minimum; when black people appear at all in the Kansas of my grandparents' memories, the
images are fleeting-black men who come around the oil fields once in a while, searching for work as hired hands; black
women taking in the white folks' laundry or helping clean white homes. Blacks are there but not there, like Sam the
piano player or Beulah the maid or Amos and Andy on the radio-shadowy, silent presences that elicit neither passion
nor fear.
It wasn't until my family moved to Texas, after the war, that questions of race began to intrude on their lives. During
his first week on the job there, Gramps received some friendly advice from his fellow furniture salesmen about serving
black and Mexican customers: "If the coloreds want to look at the merchandise, they need to come after hours and
arrange for their own delivery." Later, at the bank where she worked, Toot made the acquaintance of the janitor, a tall
and dignified black World War II vet she remembers only as Mr. Reed. While the two of them chatted in the hallway
one day, a secretary in the office stormed up and hissed that Toot should never, ever, "call no n***** 'Mister.' " Not
long afterward, Toot would find Mr. Reed in a corner of the building weeping quietly to himself. When she asked him
what was wrong, he straightened his back, dried his eyes, and responded with a question of his own.
"What have we ever done to be treated so mean?"