I find it noteworthy that people will be flummoxed when I tell them that I have much more discrimination from African-Americans than whites. I didn't realize until I interacted with African immigrants, especially those from East Africa and the Caribbean, that blacks were not primarily hostile, resentful, and very angry. This was a pleasant shock.
Now I can hear certain liberals cry out: "He must be a racist troll."
Maybe this is what results when so many people believe that African-Americans, because of U.S. history, cannot be racist--there are plenty of sanctions against openly acting in a racist way against black people but when black people say racist things or behave in a prejudiced manner against whites, Hispanics, Asians, there is at best "sideways glances" but mostly silence.
I have forgotten, or more accurately, repressed by memories of the attacks I was the object of during my childhood. I do recall listening to a friend, Wendy W., whose father was a teacher in the Seattle Public Schools and who lived in Montlake, say once to me, "You know, I understand blacks have been discriminated against, but I'm really afraid of them." I said nothing, even though I had already been beaten up several times. My feelings were just too boxed up inside.
I waited almost a lifetime to tell the following story.
The most terrific beating I received occurred just right outside of Ezell's Fried Chicken in 1968 at about 2:00 p.m. I think it was the summer, though I could be mistaken. I was alone and waiting for the bus when suddenly a group of African-American kids came running out of nowhere and started pummeling me. I probably fell to the sidewalk--I recall my books fell on the sidewalk and at the end of the ordeal, a young black girl helped me collect them. I might have been crying. In any case, I was very very shaken. The beating must have lasted 5-10 minutes. I don't recall what kind of bruises resulted from it, but I do not think I sustained any major physical injury of any sort
I didn't think of going to Garfield High School, right across, the street to report the beating. All I wanted to do was to get away and nurse my injuries in mute silence.
I assumed afterwards that this kind of incident happened all the time in the Central Area, which may indeed have been the case for years. Hundreds of students were probably assaulted and tacitly told to "say nothing."
No one ever suggested that these beatings be reported. It was as if the underlying premise was that African-Americans were free to do whatever they wanted. Whenever I pass by Garfield or Ezell's today I inevitably think for a second about the assaults. But no, I don't get flashbacks.
The main result was that I had psychologically traumatized for life.
Today much of my distress comes from the fact that people will not acknowledge what I went through. It's as if a whole part of Seattle history had become anesthetized and fallen into oblivion. This really happened--to ME! I did not deserve to be treated like a dog being beaten.
And I believe it happened to many others, and that they were implicitly told to not say anything about it.
I am also concerned that people in their twenties or thirties (or even forties) will have been indoctrinated with the very entrenched, fixed "story-line" set by a dominant group of Seattle liberals at the expense of a much more complicated, messier "story-line."
And even if very few people ever people will have read this, I will have by setting this down have done service to the truth of my own experience. I don't think I can ever "exorcise" the trauma of having all those fists, arms, shoes, angry faces on my body.
But I do believe I can "release" some of its effects. Or hoping that I can. Regardless of who reads or never reads this. I never wanted any of this to happen, I wanted to forget this, and I was a reluctant witness to history.
Now I can hear certain liberals cry out: "He must be a racist troll."
Maybe this is what results when so many people believe that African-Americans, because of U.S. history, cannot be racist--there are plenty of sanctions against openly acting in a racist way against black people but when black people say racist things or behave in a prejudiced manner against whites, Hispanics, Asians, there is at best "sideways glances" but mostly silence.
I have forgotten, or more accurately, repressed by memories of the attacks I was the object of during my childhood. I do recall listening to a friend, Wendy W., whose father was a teacher in the Seattle Public Schools and who lived in Montlake, say once to me, "You know, I understand blacks have been discriminated against, but I'm really afraid of them." I said nothing, even though I had already been beaten up several times. My feelings were just too boxed up inside.
I waited almost a lifetime to tell the following story.
The most terrific beating I received occurred just right outside of Ezell's Fried Chicken in 1968 at about 2:00 p.m. I think it was the summer, though I could be mistaken. I was alone and waiting for the bus when suddenly a group of African-American kids came running out of nowhere and started pummeling me. I probably fell to the sidewalk--I recall my books fell on the sidewalk and at the end of the ordeal, a young black girl helped me collect them. I might have been crying. In any case, I was very very shaken. The beating must have lasted 5-10 minutes. I don't recall what kind of bruises resulted from it, but I do not think I sustained any major physical injury of any sort
I didn't think of going to Garfield High School, right across, the street to report the beating. All I wanted to do was to get away and nurse my injuries in mute silence.
I assumed afterwards that this kind of incident happened all the time in the Central Area, which may indeed have been the case for years. Hundreds of students were probably assaulted and tacitly told to "say nothing."
No one ever suggested that these beatings be reported. It was as if the underlying premise was that African-Americans were free to do whatever they wanted. Whenever I pass by Garfield or Ezell's today I inevitably think for a second about the assaults. But no, I don't get flashbacks.
The main result was that I had psychologically traumatized for life.
Today much of my distress comes from the fact that people will not acknowledge what I went through. It's as if a whole part of Seattle history had become anesthetized and fallen into oblivion. This really happened--to ME! I did not deserve to be treated like a dog being beaten.
And I believe it happened to many others, and that they were implicitly told to not say anything about it.
I am also concerned that people in their twenties or thirties (or even forties) will have been indoctrinated with the very entrenched, fixed "story-line" set by a dominant group of Seattle liberals at the expense of a much more complicated, messier "story-line."
And even if very few people ever people will have read this, I will have by setting this down have done service to the truth of my own experience. I don't think I can ever "exorcise" the trauma of having all those fists, arms, shoes, angry faces on my body.
But I do believe I can "release" some of its effects. Or hoping that I can. Regardless of who reads or never reads this. I never wanted any of this to happen, I wanted to forget this, and I was a reluctant witness to history.
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