1972 was a long time ago. It was the first year I voted. I also remember it as the year of my worst Thanksgiving.
1972 was when I worked, ever so briefly, at the Sears on Blackstone Avenue. As a college student, I was happy to get any job. Once Sears hired me, I figured I was fixed until graduation. I didn't know then about a store's need to increase its staff around the holidays. And decrease the staff when Santa's view of chimneys was only in his rear view mirror. All I knew was I wanted to work. Give me any hours! How about on the day before and the day after Thanksgiving? Give 'em to me!
And so, with the cost of textbooks and paying my heating bill, I hunkered down in Fresno to work. My family gathered in Sacramento for Thanksgiving. My friends headed hither and yon. I punched a time clock.
Along with a gaggle of other employees, I worked in a vast basement. There we would wait for calls from upstairs. When customers bought artificial Christmas trees or crockpots or dollhouses, a clerk would call down to the basement: Bring up the dollhouse! Bring up the crockpot!
These pronouncements would blare from loudspeakers. We bottom-dwellers scurried along, seeking the requested item. Down came the demands. Up went the item. And so it went.
Sometimes an upstairs clerk, using their superior I'm-at-street-level voice, would demand, "Would one of you boys bring up a crockpot?"
Boys. Indeed, when I toiled below Blackstone Avenue, only Y-chromosomes scurried along the basement's endless aisles.
But there was Pride. Yes, Pride with a capital P. I remember him well.
I was raised in the lily-white suburbs of Sacramento. Until the end of high school I knew one African-American family. At my high school, if you were African American, you were a Baker. If you know Baseball, you probably know Dusty Baker had a solid career as a ballplayer with the Atlanta Braves, Los Angeles Dodgers, San Francisco Giants and Oakland Athletics . He went on to manage the Giants and currently manages the Cincinnati Reds. But first, he starred in every sport at my high school. And was the only African American I knew.
Yep, I led a very sheltered life.
Then came Pride. Over the loudspeakers, the voice boomed: "Would one of you boys please bring up ... ."
Since Pride had basement seniority, he could answer first. Whenever a clerk above used "boy," Pride would pause. The crackling, echoing sound of a customer's request would end and there would be silence.
And then Pride slowly, clearly answered, "There are no boys down here."
It was one of my earliest lessons about race. Pride literally had pride.
For whatever reason his parents bestowed upon him that name, it was as much first name as it was truthful description. Soon, no clerks used "boy."
This year, a generation and more after the first year I voted, I am thankful for Barack Obama's election as president. No one, from the conservative and churlish Rush Limbaugh to the liberal and childish Keith Olbermann, knows how his presidency will go. Maybe he will be one of the best (or worst) commander-in-chiefs.
And we as a nation, regardless of President Obama's accomplishments, will continue for generations to struggle with racism. But every step draws us closer to Martin Luther King Jr.'s "beloved community."
Recently I read Michelle Richmond's novel, "The Year of The Fog." In her story, Richmond ponders the failures and insights of memory. She mentions the work of Hermann Ebbinghaus. In the 1870s, Ebbinghaus was the first scientist to study memory. His work remains valid today. Fifty-six percent of learned information is forgotten within an hour. Another day and another 10% is gone. In a month, 80% of what we learn vanishes.
Memory fades. Changes. Becomes fractured or romanticized. 1972 was my worst Thanksgiving. And yet I remember Pride, and his fragile, truthful name.
I will remember 2008. I will remember enough to believe more and better will come with each passing year.
Larry Patten is a United Methodist Church pastor. His Web site is www.larrypatten.com.
