Gentle Hands: Moving Beyond Black and White
by BAR contributing editor Richard O'Connor
"It took this worn out, down at the heels western
Massachusetts hill town to purge any traces of whiteness I imagined I still
laid claim to."
She says I have gentle
hands. Lover's hands. I say polio hands. I thought it must have been my brain
that initially attracted her to me. And, the paintings, to be sure. I started
off our life together a simple Irish painter lad of the County Roscommon kind.
My eventual slide into blackness was of the rude awakening kind.
There were endless
discussions of politics, projection, Malcolm, Martin and the civil rights
movement. There was becoming officially, legally, a part of her family. There
was the big belly and then a daughter. There was a brown face and Afro hair
always in front of my eyes like a reflection in a mirror.
And, almost best of all,
there was that dinner party. In a sea of black faces, I was the one who
remembered it was Little Esther Phillips who recorded "What a Difference A Day
Makes" on CTI. Such astonished looks on
their umber faces, and the subtle nods as if to say "Yeah. The brotha's
alright."
In our 24 years together,
we've experienced a dozen towns in five states, a half dozen Caribbean islands,
and European adventures. It took this worn out, down at the heels western
Massachusetts hill town to purge any traces of whiteness I imagined I still
laid claim to.
"The knock on the door. âI'm Officer Brooks. The lady
next door says you were walking around exposing yourself.'"
The goat farm, a long
awaited 3-acre fantasy realized, an achievement. Only 3 weeks in this hick
town, this scenic neighborhood, this awful ramshackle house. Three weeks? The
knock on the door. "I'm Officer Brooks. The lady next door says you were
walking around exposing yourself." Breathe in. Breathe out.
"This is Mrs. Behilo's son
the fireman." He smirks. "She says you
were walking around exposing yourself." Time really does stand still, you know.
The whole world changed.
Officer Brooks stopped
talking. He just stared awhile. I could see the wheels turning around in his
head. He asks me "Do you walk at
all?" âBout damn time he noticed this
bright yellow wheelchair.
"No. I don't walk."
Officer Brooks, half my age,
says "I have perfect vision and I can't see that far. What is it, about 600
feet?" God Bless you Officer Brooks! And, God Bless your sainted mother, and
your mother's mother, and her mother for seven generations back!
"Yup. About 600 feet."
"They say black don't rub off. They're wrong."
In the liberal college town
we had just moved from, a very well educated, respectable Black man, a
professor I think he was, told me with sadness and a hint of shame in his voice
about hearing the clicking of car doors being locked from the inside as he
walked past them along the public sidewalk.
From gentle hands, lover's
hands, husband hands, father hands, polio hands, painter hands.... to indecent
exposure predator hands just as sudden as the clicking of a car door lock.
They say black don't rub
off. They're wrong. White people are the devil. Did I say that? I'm just light
skinned - and way too black to be living here.
Richard O'Connor can be contacted at nonametribe@earthlink.net.
The Supreme Court decision in Louisiana v. Callais revealed that Black people's limited electoral power is not protected, and it never has been.
The attack on Mali was a coordinated international destabilization campaign, but as is usually the case, any coverage from the Western press hides the full story.
The spectacle of major sporting events does not simply distract from a city's crackdown on the working class. It is a mechanism through which it is normalized and accelerated.
The Louisiana v. Callais Supreme Court decision has given state legislatures the green light to break up Black and Native voting districts.
A forensic investigation into how Washington leveraged the war in Iran to replace Nord Stream, save the dollar, and establish total command over the worldâs fuel from the Arctic to the Indian Ocean.
