Cool Steve Deals With Racism

Dr. Jeff Rubin

Welcome to From Insults to Respect. Here’s a story that just might deepen your thoughts about racism.

Cool Steve Deals With Racism

Monday morning.  Lincoln feels more familiar now.  Here and there I see someone I know.

            After lunch, my black friend, Leroy and I are talking about our rock band rehearsal next Thursday night while heading to math class. I spot Steve Marino and Brainy George down the hall.  We’re heading toward them.  I know that Steve and George live in an all-white neighborhood.  How would they react to being introduced to Leroy?

            When Leroy and I reach Steve and George, I nod and try to hurry by, but Steve says, “Wait a minute, Jeff.  I wanna talk to you about playing stickball after school.”

            My heart freezes.  I think, I’ll just keep walking and say quickly, I gotta run.

            But then, what I was doing just feels wrong.  I stop.  My heart—pounding, my forehead—hot—I say, “Hey, this guy over here, he’s… he’s a friend a mine—Leroy Wilson.”

            “Leroy, huh,” says Steve, smiling.  “Hey, you from Coney Island?”

            “No, I ain’t.  I live in Brighton.  Most of the cats in my family, though, live ovuh dere.”

            “Coney Island,’ says George, “a lot of niggers live over there.”

              “What did you say,” yells Leroy? The anger in his voice captures the attention of the hallway traffic.  Students are stopping to see what’s going on.

            Just then, the late bell rings. “Leroy,” says Steve, “I’ll talk to George about his choice of words after school.” Steve then gives Leroy a respectful bow of his head.  Then we quickly head toward our classes.

            On our way, Leroy says, “You know dat Brainy George cat is a real ass.”

*                                  *                                  *

When I spot Steve in the hallway after math, I hustle after him.  “Steve, after school I’m gonna get your friend, George, good.”

            “Get?  Get?  Watcha mean get?”

            “You heard him.  What he said to Leroy, man…”

            “Listen, Jeff, I’ve known George for a couple of years now and I’ve seen quite a few kids rough him up because he can have a big mouth.  And ya know what?  All it does is make him more stubborn. Jeff, I’m with you on wanting George to knock off the insults.  Maybe we could come up with something that actually has a chance of working with him.  I’ll see him in health class eighth period and I’ll tell him we both wanna talk to him after school.  We’ll go to Rocco’s and whyncha keep it friendly until the pizza comes, capeesh?  Then tell him straight how ya feel, without threats.  When you’re through, let him answer you completely.  No matter what he says, don’t interrupt.  When he’s through, you’ll be dying to reply to what he said, but don’t.  Let me go.  We’re old friends.  Some stuff he ough’da hear… well, he’ll be able to take it better if… if it comes from me.  Capeesh?”

            “We still gonna play stickball?”

            “Yeah.  Right after pizza, we’ll go.”

*                                  *                                  *

Later that afternoon, George, Steve and I all walk over to Rocco’s and order a pizza.

            When it comes, I say, “George, ya use the word nigger to piss my friend Leroy off?

            “Hey!  If we start calling those people black, pretty soon they’ll start thinking that they’re as good as us.”

            “George,” says Steve, “why is everything to you in terms of who’s better than the next guy?”

            George doesn’t answer, but his face is turning red.

            Steve pauses a few seconds.  I pick at my pizza trying to restrain myself.  After a few more calming seconds, Steve continues.  “I’ve known you for a couple years now, George, and I know you feel bad about not being too hot in gym and sports and stuff like that.  You looking to put people down to convince yourself that being poor in sports isn’t as bad as being black or… or… or whatever?”

            “Hey!  First of all I don’t give a shit about sports,” George screams.  “And what about you, Steve?! You do the same thing as me, Steve!  You do the same thing!  You’re always saying you want to be the best baseball player around and you’re always comparing yourself to other people!  Just yesterday, I heard you say to Cliff that you think you’re better than Jeff in stickball!  That’s the same thing, Steve!  That’s the same thing!”

            Steve pauses here, looking confused.  Then a smile forms on his lips.  “No.  No, it isn’t,” Steve replies.  I notice he has put his hand on George’s shoulder, and his voice is soft and calming.  “You’re right that I wanna be the best baseball player around, but I know that even if I become the best, that still doesn’t make me better than anyone else as a human being.  Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays are the best players around, but that doesn’t make them any better people than you or me.  It’s okay to strive to be the best at something.  That’s a person’s special contribution.  Cliff’s great at writing about sports; you’re a genius at school stuff; I’m good at baseball; and Jeff’s a good stickball player, maybe not as good as me, but pretty good.”  Steve turns to me and smiles.

            “Finish up with George,” I say, “and we’ll straighten out the stickball issue over the next few games.”

            “All right,” says Steve, still smiling.  “George, first of all, you know I like you, don’t ya?”

            “Yeah.  I guess so.”

            “There’s no guessing here, George.  I don’t have to hang out with you.  I don’t have to be talking to you now.  I do it because I like you.  That’s gotta be pretty obvious to someone with your intelligence.  No?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Good.  Now, correct me if I’m wrong.  No matter how special our talents are, it still don’t make us better or worse than the next guy as a person.  You can see that, can’t ya?”

            I think to myself, maybe in some basic way we are all equal—but people do respect some people more than others.

            George glares at us.  He then roughly shakes hot pepper on his pizza and too much comes spilling out.  “SHIT!” he hollers as he slams the shaker on the table.  He shoves his slice away, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and angles his chair away from us.  We sit silently, listening to the juke box playing “Downtown,” and watching the other patrons passing the time.  Now George is rubbing his head, messing up his already messy hair.  Slowly, a quiet sadness comes over him.  I see a glimmer in his eyes.  He turns to Steve.  “It’s not that I’m bad in sports,” he says, his voice much softer now.  “I couldn’t care less about sports.  It’s just… well, all through elementary school there were these black guys who would gang up on me.  I know white people have roughed me up also.  And probably whites have beat up far more blacks than the other way around.  It’s in the paper all the time how whites are stringing up blacks, especially in the South.  But, when you’ve been beaten up as much as me by blacks, it’s hard to forget just like that.”

            Everyone remains quiet for a few moments.  I notice every now and then Steve looks softly into George’s eyes.  After a while George says, “I guess Leroy… well… he never did anything wrong to me so… well, I guess I should at least give him a chance.”

*                                  *                                  *

A couple of days later, Leroy and I run into George out by the side entrance of Lincoln.  George turns red, stutters for a minute and then says, “Listen, Leroy, I… I… well, I’m sorry about the way I acted the first time we met.”

            “Sorry,” says Leroy.  “Sorry.  Man, git the hell away from me.”

            “Leroy, listen to George for a minute, will ya,” I say.

“Leroy,” says George.  “When I was in junior high there were these… well these black kids, and they taunted me day in and day out.  And a few times they beat me up and some of my white friends.  And… well… I wasn’t alone about getting to hate them.  After awhile, the white kids I knew started to say stuff about black people, without bothering to say the stuff just about the kids who picked on us, and… I guess we began in some strange way to think we were better than blacks.  That’s wrong, and I’m… well, I’m sorry.”

            Leroy places his hands on the tight black curls of his closely cropped hair.  He clears his throat by going, “Ahmmm. Ahmmm.”  He crosses his arms in front of his chest and takes a tough looking stance.  Then he puts his arms down to his side.  Finally, in his deep rich voice he says, with his hands moving in front of him: “Ya know, it’s funny… it’s funny about dis business of so many cats tryin’ ta think dey’re better dan everyone else.  Ya know, when I go ta Coney Island, some of da black cats ovuh dere mess wit’ me just because dey know I have white friends.  Dey start squawking, ‘Boy, you a whitey’ or ‘You a Oreo!’  Dey think dey’re better den me ‘cause dey have just black friends.  Dere’s times when I hated all of ‘em because of it.  At uda times, I hated all whites fuh makin’ black people hate me.  T’ tell ya da truth, George, I guess… well, I guess I have no call holden’ a grudge wit’ you, not wit’ me sorta doin’ da same thing lots of times.”

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Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional and social intelligence. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE.

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