For Olivia Hooker, And Those I Never Will Know

 Nearly a decade ago, I wrote something that, whatever its merits or lack thereof, is far more important than anything I’ve written on this blog.  I am mentioning it here,  not to promote it or myself, but to help keep the memory of its subject.

When I wrote that article, I, like many other people, was just learning about the incident I described. Though only a decade has passed, the day it was published seems like a lifetime, even an historical era, ago. During the previous few years, historians, public officials and the few remaining survivors of that tragedy were doing everything they could to ensure that it isn’t forgotten.  Now in the US, we have officials at every level, from the President to school board members, who are trying to keep it—and anything else that makes them uncomfortable—from being taught or even mentioned.

I am referring to the Tulsa Race Massacre, which took place 105 years ago today.  Like too many other tragedies, a false rumor sparked it. And, like too many of the most horrific episodes in history, it resulted in the destruction of, not only individual lives (the exact number will, most likely, never be known) but of a community: Mobs of white residents, deputized by the governor himself, wiped the Greenwood district off the face of the earth.

I have told my students they should take history personally. Possibly my worst failing or, at least, one of my biggest disappointments, was knowing that none of the students in a Women’s Studies class I taught seemed to understand as much.  In fact, some resisted the idea:  They were required to take the course as part of a program and, I now realize, were resistant simply out of resentment.  Then again, I remember when my mother, even when she did paid work, couldn’t open a checking account or get a credit card without my father’s signature. I also remember girls smarter and more talented and ambitious than I was being discouraged from, or outright denied the opportunity to, attend college because “It would be a waste of time, you’re going to get married anyway.” 

And when I wrote that article, a few survivors of the Tulsa Race Massacre remained. I came into contact with one:  Olivia Hooker, who witnessed the pogrom as a little girl and was 101 years old when that article was published. She passed away two years later. I hope that, if I have done nothing else, I have honored her memory—and those of hundreds, possibly thousands, of others whose names neither I nor the rest of the world may ever know.

A Lesson Refreshed, Decades Later

 Some of the lessons you learn while you’re in school have nothing to do with school itself—or, at least anything that happens in a classroom or laboratory.

Sometimes you don’t realize you’ve learned those lessons—or they don’t make sense—until much later.  The reason could be that you forget, or don’t think about, whatever brought about those lessons for a long time.

Yesterday I took an afternoon ride to Randall’s Island and came back via a series of paths and streets that more or less parallel the Harlem River. As I passed Yankee Stadium, I thought I saw a somewhat familiar face. Indeed he was: a neighbor with whom I’ve exchanged friendly greetings. He was selling baseball caps and other souvenirs of the baseball team and New York City, he said, not because he needs the money, but to “get out of the house.”

I told him I understood: It’s one of the many reasons I ride my bicycle.

“And you look so strong, so confident,” he said. 

I demurred. “ Well, I’m not so strong…”

“You are. And you look so happy.”

Vicki told me the same thing, almost verbatim. She’d seen me spinning my pedals—on my Nishiki International, if I remember correctly—from Buccleuch (Rumor had it that spelling it correctly was a requirement for graduating from Rutgers) onto College Avenue.

We met in a class and went for a beer. (You could do that as an 18 year old in those days.) The attraction wasn’t sexual, at least as best as I could tell, nor was it “spiritual” or even platonic. We simply “got” each other: We were exploring creative and intellectual endeavors, and learning about ourselves in ways we never could have in the milieux each of us left.

One thing she immediately noticed about me was my lack of confidence in myself: something I still struggle with.  “But I saw a whole different person on your bike.”

“Nobody ever told me I wasn’t good enough to ride my bike.”

“The way you rode your bike, you’re good enough for anything.”

I thanked her, even though I didn’t believe what she said. I don’t think she was trying to give me false hope; she simply was describing who she saw riding by the Rutgers campus.

I hadn’t thought about that moment, or Vicki, in decades. And it took a random encounter with a neighbor selling baseball caps by Yankee Stadium to give me a “refresher.”

Playing Chicken On Memorial Day

 Today is Memorial Day here in the US.  I suspect that some people in this part of the country are not having the picnics, cookouts or other outdoor events they might’ve planned for today.  It has rained or drizzled almost steadily for the past two days and the heavy clouds hovering over us are trapping dampness that could turn to rain at any moment. That is one reason I am not at the Tour of Somerville.  That, and I woke up later than I’d planned.  But I might play chicken with the rain later today and sneak a ride in.