By Frederick A. Hurst—-
I wish I were my son. I thought of him the other night as I confronted a bartender who provoked a reaction from me as she insisted that I get in line if I wanted to be served.
It was a charity event for the Holyoke Children’s Museum in which my daughter-in-law was featured as a dancer with the “celebrities.” It was a delightful affair at Holyoke’s Log Cabin attended by mostly White folks but generously sprinkled with African-Americans and Hispanics. I didn’t want to go. But as so often happens, my wife guilt-tripped me into going to support family, a plea that she knew might work if nothing else would.
I thoroughly enjoyed “Dancing with the Celebrities (Fancy Steps)” which teamed professional dancers with amateurs with varying degrees of talent. It was genuine fun! My wife and I sat at our daughter-in-law’s table with a group of younger people. In the past I would have called them “youngsters” but they have outgrown the moniker. They are people, younger than my wife and me, who have matured and grown into adulthood and assumed positions of responsibility that suggest that the future of Springfield and the region is upbeat although they are also an omnipresent reminder to my wife and me that our ages might be a limitation on how long we will be around to enjoy their accomplishments, which we think will be abundant.
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The atmosphere was relaxed. Our table was located right next to the dance floor a few feet from a table reserved by a family whose sons had attended high school with ours. We met the parents, who were clearly as attached to their family as we were to ours. One of their sons was also a dancer for the evening. He was as nervous as our daughter-in-law. The younger folks at our two tables gave neither dancer any quarter. They made it clear that any mistake or misstep would be duly recorded and publicly broadcasted for the entire world to know.
I laughed to myself. It was typical Hurst fare. And I loved it. No babying. Keep the standards and expectations high and commiserate after the fact if circumstances required. It was a lovely Saturday evening affair. And although it ruined my Sunday because I was up too late, I’m glad my wife convinced me to go. And I will go again next year not only because I enjoyed it but because the event was for a worthy cause.
But there was one hitch. In a way I’m almost reluctant to talk about it because the hitch was relatively minor but nonetheless meaningful enough to linger in my consciousness. It involved me, a Black professor from Amherst College, and an unfortunate White guy who just happened to be standing in the line of fire.
I approached the bar at the far end of the room to order a Pinot Grigio for myself and one for my wife. The Black professor from Amherst College, whom I had just met earlier that evening and who happened to be one of the celebrity dancers, was standing at the bar when I arrived and I engaged him in conversation as I waited for service. There were three people behind the bar. All were White, a fact that had no particular relevance for me except for my casual observation regarding the general absence of African-American employees.
The server closest to my Black friend and me was an older White woman from whom I attempted to order my drinks. She responded to my efforts by gesturing toward our left and ordering me and my friend to “get in line.” It was a brusque order but we responded to it genially. For the most part, I’m a pretty reasonable guy as I’m sure my new Black friend from Amherst College is as well. We were both apologetic as we moved to the left to get into the “line.” But there was no line. As I moved toward my left where the line was supposed to be, I gazed into the eyes of a lone White male whose puzzled look measured my own. The lone White man was standing at the bar to our left waiting to order a drink just like we were. Being the confrontational type that I am, I said to the lady bartender, “What line?” which seemed to make  all three of us at the bar a bit edgy as to what would happen next.
I continued to press the point. That’s just what I do sometimes! In a nice way but in a way that I knew would make the bartender as thoroughly uncomfortable as she was making me and the others. There was nobody at the bar except two Black guys and one White guy and she wanted the two of us Black guys to get in line behind the White guy. There might have been a line before I came but I saw no evidence of it. And with only one White man to my left and two Black men (us) to his right and three bartenders, at that moment there was no need for a line at all.
Excuse the historical metaphor, but I was not about to go to the back of the proverbial bus in this day and age when all of the seats at the front were empty except for one White person. The bartender should have just taken the order as she eventually had to do when it became apparent to her that my low-key, high visibility fuss wasn’t going anywhere until she served me my Pinot Grigio. Instead she ended up digesting a taste of my favorite crow that I, admittedly, served up with mucho gusto.
But the White guy to my left was the star of the emerging show. He was aghast as I repeated my comment about the absence of a line. And for emphasis I said to the bartender, “I’m very sensitive about that kind of stuff.” And without hesitation, my newly found White compadre very forcefully said, “I’m sensitive about that kind of stuff, too!” At that point, the stunned bartender’s mean stare morphed into the look of a deer frozen in headlights. She was obviously stricken with the discomforting realization that the game was up. Sadly, with White affirmation, my moral reaction gained a level of legitimacy in her mind or, at least, made her want to end the controversy that was of her own foolish making by the most expedient route. Which means, of course, that she hastened to serve drinks to me and my new Black friend. My White friend was served too but I was so caught up in the moment that I can’t remember who among the three bartenders served him. But I can say for certain that nobody ordered him to get in line.
I didn’t need my new-found White friend’s help to accomplish my self-appointed task as the evening’s guardian of racial justice. But I sure appreciated it. Too often well-meaning White folks will duck for cover to avoid confronting racial idiocy coming from their own. This man stepped right up to the plate and hit a home run all the way out of the Log Cabin park. Whoever he is, I want him to know that he’s my hero.
I was mildly perturbed by the whole incident but I wasn’t mad. I was having a good time. I made the fuss as a matter of principle. I’m from the old school. My racial antenna is always up as is the case with most Black folks from my generation although most will only admit it privately and certainly rarely say it publicly. And although I ignore most racially-tinted minor slights now-a-days because they would otherwise preoccupy too much of my time, some I simply will not ignore. And this, obviously, was one of them.
The Log Cabin, where I have always – with the exception of the aforementioned incident – been treated with the deepest respect, is not exactly a premier African-American entertainment destination venue. We tend toward Chez Josef for our formal affairs. Nevertheless, I wanted to make sure that the next time a Black person comes to the bar at the Log Cabin attended by the same White bartender that she would have to dig deep down into her consciousness, suppress her anger at her lingering thoughts about that “uppity” Black N… who “called her out,” force a smile and serve the African-American his/her chosen drink without racial condescension for fear that she might attract my same reaction. I hope that I civilized her for the benefit of all other African-Americans to come and for the edification of those close to her whom she might influence.
But something else that I wondered about as I was riding home that evening was how my son, Justin, would have handled the situation. I bet it would have been less stressful and ended less dramatically for him and the bartender. He probably would have cracked a joke about it while laughing the entire matter away. And before he finished teasing her, the bartender would probably have joined him in laughter and served him a double of whatever he was drinking for the price of a single. The last thing he would have done was to take offense―not the first thing.
My son’s response would have been a reflection of his view of the world today. Mine, of course, was more a reflection of my view of the world of yesterday as it impacts today. As I thought about it, it occurred to me that both views are legitimate. I’m conditioned (traumatized?) by past necessity and experience to respond in one way and he in another. My son is living in the present and riding into the future carrying little of the baggage of the past that so burdens so many from my generation. I tend not to give the benefit of the doubt to racial slights my son may not even notice. He’s not naïve. To the contrary, he has felt the sting of racism and dealt with it appropriately. But not in the dramatic way of those from my generation and those before it who gave birth to the Civil Rights laws that made things so much easier for his generation.
I was very philosophical and at peace as I pondered the difference between the two of us and how that difference made the poor White bartender’s encounter with me just her “luck of the draw.” I’m the past and the present. My son is the present and the future. Things come easier for him and he responds accordingly. And that’s how it should be. And that’s how I want it to be, even though, sometimes, as I reflect on all that was and all that is and all that will be, I wish I was my son.  ■