Chapter Two

Wisdom comes not from the
journey, but from the
experiences along the way

“Only a fool starves in the land of plenty”
Attributed to Rev. Waverly Weaver, Jr.

Before the Navy, before Berkeley and before work, came the family. It
affected my values and my character. Even when I did not follow the moral
teaching of my family, I knew when I was not. I learned a lot from my
family and it gave me much strength in those early adult years.
I guess we are all a product of our home environment. This is especially
true of young adults. When you are twenty years old, most of your
experiences in life have been those of a child. You have had very few
experiences as an adult, so you fall back on the adults of your childhood.
The structure of your childhood and adolescence will affect how you react to
certain situations.
My mother was raised in a traditional family of eight children. Her father
laid down moral direction for the children, and her mother enforced it. By
the time she was 19, my mother found herself divorced and the mother of
two children, both under two and a half years of age.
These two children were my older brother and I, and we found ourselves
living with her father in a large home in St. Louis, Missouri. We were the
only grandchildren and well supervised. You see, this was also the home of
great-grandparents, grandparents, three aunts, and constant visits by our
three uncles. Life was fun, and we felt protected and loved. My brother and
I were the center of attention for both entertainment and training.
I say training because we were expected to understand the family, with
its pride and self-discipline, and to be in control of ourselves. Discipline
was primarily handled by the women of the family–my grandmother,
mother and aunts. This would include corporal punishment as well as other
punishments. The limits that we had were very clearly outlined to us and we
were seldom surprised by being punished. We knew which activities would
result in punishment and which would not. We learned early either not to do
it or not to get caught. Nevertheless, once we were discovered, punishment
was expected, and neither argument nor excuse would ward it off. My
grandmother used to say, “Oh, you have earned this one, boy! Come here!”
But there are some things that a parent cannot teach. Those things nature
must teach. I remember my grandparents’ big black potbellied stove in the
kitchen. It was used for heat in the winter and I hated winter; therefore, I
spent many mornings close to this stove. When I was two years old, my
mother and grandmother would warn me about that stove. “Hot!” “That
stove is hot!” “You’d better watch out!” I knew what heat was and I knew
it would consume things, but I had no real concept of this thing called
“HOT” until Mother Nature introduced me to it.
One morning I accidentally brushed against that hot potbellied stove and
immediately understood what this “HOT” everyone was talking about, was.
After my introduction to hot, I would warn anyone who got near that stove,
“Hot, hot, you’d better stay away!” “The stove is hot!” That was a lesson
only nature could teach me, and a few years later it became a lifesaving
lesson.
When I was six years old, my brother and I were playing in the attic,
which was on the third floor of our home. We had recently gone to the
carnival, where it was “Fire Safety Week.” The nice fireman had told us
about fire safety and cautioned us about opening a “HOT” door. He said if
we were leaving a burning building, we should check every door before we
opened it by using the back of our hands to feel for heat. If we felt “HOT”
we were not to open that door.
While we played in the attic, one of the adults sounded the fire alarm.
All we heard was, “FIRE, FIRE, everyone get out of the house, there’s is a
FIRE!” Then my aunt’s voice came from the floor below, “You kids get
out, the attic is on fire!” As we ran down the hallway to the stairs, we
considered going out the back door which led directly down three flights of
steps to the backyard. When we got to the closed door, I remembered what
the fire captain had said about checking the door. I placed the back of my
hand on the door and felt a lot of heat and remembered that old potbellied
stove. I immediately took my brother’s hand and told him there was fire in
that room and we must go out through the front.
If my parents had simply protected me from that potbellied stove, I
would have been unprotected from the dangers of that fire. Often, in
compassion and care, we protect people from harm and leave them open to
dangers. The instincts to protect must be balanced with the need for
learning. The experiences of life may have saved my life that day, and the
warnings of my mother could not have given me what I needed while facing
that door.
Soon after the fire, our family went their separate ways. It was not
because of the fire, but marriages, military, and other obligations resulted in
the family moving out of that great home. We all had to find other places to
live and we were sorry to see everyone go. No one was hurt, but I could not
help but be thankful for that early lesson nature taught me about fire. It was
much better to be taught about “HOT” by that old potbellied stove than by
the fire in that back room.
That old house was full of love and affection, as were the children.
Everyone felt it was his/her responsibility to help train and prepare us for
life. I do not remember any speeches about how tough life was or how
many obstacles there were going to be.
I Remember Nothing About Giving Up, Or Restrictions Based On My
Color. The Only Limits I Remember Were Based On My Age and
Position In the Family
I believe these clearly defined limits gave me more control of my life
because I could relax in the wide boundaries the family gave me, always
secure and never confused on my limits. This living arrangement was great
for my brother and me. Being the only grandchildren in this big and
influential family was especially significant around Christmas and other
holidays, but not necessarily for my mother. She needed a place of her own
to continue her family. After five years, she remarried, and we moved out of
grandpa’s home in the city and found our way out to the country.
My new father was very similar to my grandfather. He was a disciplined,
hard-working man who did not speak much. He expected a lot from
everyone, as well as himself, and he led by example. I can remember many
nights when he would come home from working in the steel factory fifty
miles away in St. Louis. He would then stay up all night studying for his
correspondence school and working in his garden to provide fresh
vegetables for us.
Work was his motto, his creed, and his measurement of self-worth. He
had left school early to help his family survive on the farm in Arkansas.
Nevertheless, he did not let his lack of formal education stop him from
telling us how important it was for us. He would always say that employers
pay for “knowledge,” not just ability. Moreover, while someone could have
the ability to build a house (all of the equipment and tools), without the
knowledge to do so he would be useless. Gaining knowledge about anything
was his passion. He is one of the wisest men in my life.
That passion for knowledge passed on to his seven sons and one
daughter, who have earned a total of two master’s degrees and three
bachelor’s degrees, as well as successful jobs. One son is responsible for
uranium management and production planning for a uranium fuel fabricator.
Another became a real estate developer. Two became schoolteachers,
another has a radio program, and another manages a restaurant. One of his
sons is a police officer in St. Louis, and another is an experienced mechanic
for a national chain of auto repair facilities. The college degrees were
obtained by the use of very few government programs, and a lot of self-
determination and discipline.
Looking back on my childhood, I guess one could say we were poor, but
we did not know it at the time. My mother and father raised eight kids in a
two-bedroom home that they paid for over the span of twenty-five years.
The Child-Rearing Style Of My Parents Would Be “Limits Without
Limiting Potential, Punishing Only When It Would Help Us Grow, and
Loving Us So We Could Love Ourselves”
Until recently, my mother always stayed home with the children (she did
not even get her driver’s license until she was thirty-five). She spent so
much time at the elementary school and helped us with so much homework
that the school started asking her to help out as a teacher’s aide. Although
she was a “big city girl,” she learned to sew, can foods and clean fish (well,
not too much fish cleaning!) When we moved from St. Louis to the country,
all of us had to hold our own and help. We were all expected to “find”
responsibilities, rather than wait until someone “gave” them to us.
The issues of race and relationships with white people were only taught
to us as a warning. This was before the civil rights movement, and many of
my relatives felt and remembered segregation and discrimination from
personal experiences. They warned us about going certain places and our
behavior when there, but never instilled any fear or guilt for being black. I
never felt inferior or powerless as a black child.
My grandfather was a well-known minister and a leader within national
organizations. His wife was also a very articulate and powerful woman who
was very well respected in the community. Their children grew up to enter
relationships that reflected their inner confidence and determination. My
Uncle Milford, a scientist, spent 27 years in the U.S. Army, retired as
Lieutenant Colonel and afterwards obtained a Ph. D. One of his younger
brothers, Samuel, is a college instructor in California; his other brother
Alvah, retired after 39 years as a schoolteacher. I could also find no reason
for failure from my aunts. Aunt Carolyn was a nurse, Aunt Marilyn was a
caseworker supervisor for the Department of Social Services, and my Aunt
Doris retired as the Director of Voter Registration for St. Louis County.
Aunt Geraldine, a noted seamstress, died at an early age. I was expected to
learn and I was expected to go as far as I wanted, not as far as someone
would let me go. In my family, there is a difference between failure and not
trying, and failure is preferred.
I always knew I could accomplish something with my life.
Accomplishment was always taught by example and instruction. At family
reunions, one of my uncles would always recite the family history for all to
hear. This sense of pride shielded me from the defeatist attitudes I would
experience later in life. I guess I looked at myself as a “Vaughn” because
that was my grandfather’s name. All of my experiences as a black child
were those of a “Vaughn.” I did not know what is was to be a “black”
person but I did know what it was like to be a “Vaughn.” That is the attitude
I took with me when my new father moved us to this small, predominantly
white community—a community where some of the residents had a different
understanding of what black people should act like. The cultural shock was
not with my family; it was with them.
That Town and I Went Through A Lot Of Changes While I Lived
There. From 1961 Until 1968, We Clashed Over What Type Of Man I
Would Become
It was a clash over the values my family had versus the stereotypes some
in this community had. My experiences with this small town ended on April
4, 1968. On that day Dr. Martin Luther King was killed, and it was the day
I joined the United States Navy.
It is nice to get home occasionally to reflect on the past and plan the
future. This town has gone through many changes since I left for the Navy
in 1968, but in some ways it remains virtually unchanged. The population is
still near 6,000 and it still has the rural innocence that I remember. Fishing
is still good and our basketball team continues to be a power to reckon with
in the conference.
However, the children I left behind have children of their own, and the
face of the town has been altered. You can still tell the strangers in town
because they are the ones locking their car doors while shopping on Main
Street.
My parents and all of their neighbors still sleep with unlocked doors and
no bars on the windows. You can look hard, but still find no graffiti
anywhere. People still nod hello to you because they think you must be a
neighbor. The library will still allow you to check out a book without a card,
if you have family living there.
When my family moved there in 1961, we were the first new black
family in a long time to arrive. The town’s population was segregated and
both black and white residents knew their places and accepted the way
things were. The local bus cafe just began to serve meals to black people,
but you did not feel welcome, and the only Cab Company did not serve our
community. Black residents were only allowed to swim in the local creek,
not at the beautiful recreation center just out of town. I can remember going
into the local theater to see a movie, only to be reprimanded by the usher for
sitting in the “white” section.
The black section was the last three rows on the left aisle. If the movie
was a good one (and it had to be for us to go there) and the last three rows
filled up, we had to sit on each other’s laps. I accepted this (at 12 years old)
until I was forced to sit on a stranger’s lap to watch a movie. I vowed to
never enter that theater again and I never have.
Insulting names and derogatory comments were common and accepted in
this community. My big brother and I found ourselves in a strange world
where people could smile and be friendly one moment and then speak the
most vile things to you the next.
Looking back at these times, I understand that their reactions and beliefs
were more learned than anything else. I do not think that it was a racist
town, but it had plenty of racist people living there.
I do not want anyone to misunderstand my memories of this town. It was
by far an overwhelmingly positive experience. Hunting, fishing, exploring
caves, playing baseball and winter ice skating on the creek were all part of
my growing up. Where else can you pick out your Christmas tree in the
summer while playing in the woods and retrieve it in December?
What changed this town were the people, not government. It was
education, not programs. Now there is no black section of town, no white-
only businesses and no open discrimination. This town is working out the
problems of the past because it must. They have no gangs, few illegal drugs,
no real crime, and a clean environment. It is still a place to call home. It is
my history and it is always nice to be home.
What changed this town into what it is today were the people of decency
and honor speaking out and forcing the ignorant and cruel people to back
away. It was not government programs that opened the swimming pool to
blacks. No agent of the federal government forced the community to accept
blacks living on the other side of the tracks. What changed this community
was the community itself.
Children who grew up with each other entered adulthood wondering why
their classmates could not shop or live with them. This community
recognized that good and bad come in all colors and cultures. In this small
town we were too close to remain strangers. We had to become neighbors.
I qualified to graduate high school as a junior because I had completed all
of the academic classes. When questioned by the school counselor, I
informed him of my intention to enter college. This kind and gentle man
whom I had known for years looked at me with compassion and
understanding. He put his hand on my back and expressed his concern in a
sympathetic manner. “Mason, why try to get into college? All you would do
is take a seat from a more deserving white person. Let me call down to the
shoe factory and see if I can get you a job with the other colored boys.”
He believed that black people did not belong in higher education and he
refused to let me graduate with the senior class. I honestly believe he
thought he was doing me a favor. I had resigned myself to stay in school
and play basketball another year.
About one week later, I was descending the steps to the gym when I
heard the coach and another player discussing the potential starters for next
year, and my name came up. The coach was saying he would use me often
but never start me because “I will never have another black player take a
scholarship away from you guys again.” I approached the coach and
informed him I was not coming back for my senior year and would finish
high school in the military.
What gave me the courage to disregard the defeatist attitude of the
counselor and the negative outlook of the coach was a strong family, not a
strong government program. How could the counselor convince me I could
not go on to college when I had three uncles with college degrees? My
mother was attending the same college while he was saying how hopeless it
was for me.
Because my family taught by example, I did not waiver at this attempt to
redirect my life. Success begins with the family, which is why our families
are under such attack by the Plantation Mentality.
Years later I was visiting and saw the counselor in town. I said hello,
took his hand and thanked him. He looked confused and inquired why I was
thanking him. I explained that I had three college degrees, and owed much
to him. As he looked even more puzzled, I continued to explain.
I left this small town and joined the Navy. I became disabled and was
forced to enter college with severe injuries. While on pain medication and
unable to walk or sit down for long periods, I struggled through college. I
had often thought of him and his doubts of me. Every time I was up late and
in pain with more chapters to read, I would think of him. When I had to
choose between relieving my pains with medication or staying alert in class,
I would think of him. When I felt overburdened and wanted to quit, I would
think of him. He was a true motivator.
The only options I gave myself were getting through it or calling him to
see if he still had contacts at the shoe factory. I thanked him for giving me
so much to prove—not to him, but to myself.
You see, long before I came under the influence of the coach and school
counselor, I had been under the influence of my family. Long before I was
discouraged by these experts smiling in my face, I had been fully motivated
by example and deed. They could not get me to accept their opinions of me
because my opinion was forged by a deep self-confidence given to me by a
strong family.
Once the slave master takes away the importance of the family, he
becomes the new family and authority in the community. We must
recommit ourselves to strong families so our children can fight off the subtle
attacks by the spirit of that coach and counselor.