Thank You For Mixing With Us Post #26

            It was the last day of a three day conference in New Orleans.    On this day, we had breakfast, closing words, and then a 3 ½ hour bus tour of New Orleans; from the beautiful Carrolton district, through the Garden and Warehouse districts, Lakeview, the French Quarters, and into the more Katrina ravaged Ninth Ward, St. Bernard’s Parish, and a short stop thru the City Park.

    
Riding through the streets lined with Live Oaks and Magnolias draped with Spanish moss, my mind was multi-tasking as I was putting together the pieces of a conversation that took place after breakfast between me and a native of New Orleanean.  He was a light-skinned black man who appeared to be in his late sixties or early 70’s.     As we were getting ready for the bus tour, this gentleman came to me to say goodbye.  I hadn’t met him personally yet, but he motioned to me through the crowd and made his way across the room to talk to me.  

   I had noticed him several times in the previous two days and had actually tried to think of an excuse to go up and talk to him but my northern background told me that to do so, would be too forward.  I watched him quite closely, as a matter of fact, because though he is black, he looks just like my own Grandpa Deaton.   The shape of his head and face, his glasses, his build and shape, height and weight, all looked like he could have been Grandpa’s black twin.  

I watched him to see if he was as wise as Grandpa.  Was he as kind?  Grandpa always had a global vision of the world.  Rather than look at only what was before him in the ‘here and now’, he looked at things like human rights, women’s rights, and always thought about the legacy his generation would leave behind.  He died in 1998 at the age of 101.

            

            Born in 1897 and growing up in the hills of southeastern Kentucky, most people there lived a very narrow existence and never got out of the hills.  He often told stories of the things he had witnessed that, as a young boy, made him determined that the curses of the hills would not be passed down his bloodline.  

As an early teen and the oldest of several siblings, he often worked out of state, only coming home on weekends or holidays.  His parents agreed to let him go so that they could find out what people ‘out there’ were doing. 

Grandpa would come home and tell them things like, “Out there, people give their babies middle names!”  Thus he was entrusted with naming most of his younger siblings.  “Out there, the kids go off to college!”  Grandpa worked through his late twenties and served in the military in order to put his younger siblings through college because he knew that otherwise, his parents could not afford to send them.   Then he, himself in his late 20's, went to Berea College, in Berea, Kentucky then married at age 30.

 My dad shares that they were always taught equality and were not allowed to use racial slurs in their house.   One day, he, his brothers and Grandpa, were riding horses through the woods at dusk.  They looked ahead and saw men from the KKK riding in the distance.  Grandpa instructed them to stop and remain quiet, hoping the KKK would go by and not notice them.  Suddenly, one of the men – whose face was covered – spotted them and yelled, “Identify yourselves immediately!”  Grandpa said, “Its Ed Deaton and my boys out here hunting for dinner.”  The men began laughing and said, “Oh!  It’s Ned!  Hey Ned!  Ya’ll go on now!  Your okay!”    This scared Grandpa so much that people he knew (but never knew who they were) was actually part of the KKK.   He began making plans to move his family out of the hills.  They moved to Fairborn, Ohio a year later when my dad was twelve. Back then, that was a huge move.  My grandma had never been out of the hills and this was a big sacrifice and adjustment for her.

 Throughout my own college years, Grandpa was my pen pal and we wrote weekly.  Though I’m a girl, he ended every letter with, “Now Mary Beth!  You get your education now!  Besides loving and serving God, that is the most important thing you can do!”  I looked forward to his letters and felt sorry for my siblings and cousins who did not experience the joy of looking forward to his letters; so I thought, until last year at our Kentucky family reunion my siblings and cousins shared that he wrote them during their college years also.  We marveled at how ahead of his time he was; though he was a conservative Christian, he believed in the rights of women, and certainly in the equality of blacks and whites.

So, back to the present, for two days, I had watched this man and wondered if he was as wonderful, wise, and gentle as Grandpa was.  Is there anyone who could remotely step into his shoes?    I wondered if he liked white people the way Grandpa liked black people.  That is why I was so shocked when he motioned to me and made his way over. 

When he got to me, I looked into his eyes and wondered what he could possibly have to say.  His gentle eyes displayed a familiarity that I had only seen in Grandpas eyes:  Wisdom, caring, gentleness, and knowledge.  Yet I was still curious:  ‘Why me, when I had been so curious about him?’  He grabbed my hand and shook it, then he said, “Mam, thank you for coming to this conference! “  ‘The pleasure was all mine!’  I thought.   I was curious why he, just another attendee like me,  felt the need to thank me for being there.  He continued, “Thank you for mixing with us!”  It took a minute to sink in what he meant.  I stood without words and stared into his eyes as he went on.

            He told about a woman who, though he never shared her color, I assume is white.  “Back in the 60’s during the race marches, she walked right next to our family in every march.  She stood by our side every step of the way and has ever since!  She has been to every family wedding and funeral; even two weeks ago she flew in to attend my nephew’s funeral!”  He went on to tell how much she has meant to them and that they consider her family. Then he expressed how important it is to keep these types of relationships going well into future generations.

            He came back to the present day and told me what an honor it was that I was willing to ‘mix’ with them.  I was so stunned, I didn’t know what to say, then said the only thing in my mind!  “I wouldn’t have it any other way!  The honor is  mine!”  I was serious!  Up until then, I had barely noticed that, though there were a lot of white people there, we were the minority.  It never occurred to me that my presence would mean anything to anyone.   

            I stared into his eyes fighting back tears.  I realized he has seen far more in his lifetime than I could ever imagine.  Not only did he have the advantage of age, but he lived in the south where the racial divide was greater but also much of the healing was initiated and carried out.  This man had seen things that I, in my short 40+ years could not even fathom.     

      The more I looked at him, the more familiar he became.  His friendly eyes told me he was a man who looked far beyond the scope of the world that surrounds him.  He has a global view and understands the concept of how our actions today will affect generations to come.  He understands the power of legacies.  I continued to stare, mesmerized, as though my own Grandpa were paying me a visit.  Yup!  He definitely filled Grandpa’s shoes!  He carried the baton and passed on the light to as many people as possible.  I couldn’t think of a more memorable way for my trip to have ended!  I left with this strange feeling that, somewhere in the seam of time, when the molds were being made and the fabric was being cut, he and Grandpa were cut from the same clothe.