Randy Ford Author- Revised THE GOOD OL’ BOYS 4th Installment

By then it was too soon to be settling down and too late to be innocence. By then we had hung up our scooters and Lucky had invested a hundred dollars in fixin’ up an old Alco tourin’ car he found mostly buried in a crik bed. It made him the leader of our troop, and I became more of a friend of his…not that I was ever less of a friend. I can remember like yesterday the good times we had in that old car when we’d all pile in and just ‘bout fit. Those was simpler, carefree days when we shared so much, and because of the car we could go almost anywhere and get almost any girl and what Lucky did I’d try to repeat, for we said we didn’t care what people thought but we did, deep down we did. Deep down we had high hopes of amountin’ to somethin’ ‘cause that was what was imprinted on our brains. Tune in, be with it, ol’ pal, and we’ll git there someday. We was buddies. Be mature! He ate all the time, imitated me, like he had a hollow leg. I was very fond of him, as you can see. On a dare we we’d do things. Really. Really. Really. We became Junior Federal Men and came from the right side of the river. I ought not to brag like I do, but we was something else, and Blackie Flint never stood a chance. I still take off my hat to Lucky, our chief. But he was no Boy Scout. And how did I know? ‘Cause he and I was like twins, and where did he stand? I know where ‘cause I stood in the same places. First like I said he stood on the right side of the river, and last he stood on the right side of the law. Take those niggers over in Sowers that would sell us licker. We was all underage, but they didn’t care. And shame and shame on ‘em again. Sure enough they was on the wrong side of the law. We was no angels, believe me but we was on the right side of the law. And yes, we may have slipped up once or twice. Gracious, give us a break. Your honor. Give us a break. He was only a nigger. Caught us a nigger. Made him pay. But, Judge, he was itchin’ for a fight. I’ve always heard that we have the right to defend ourselves. Down by the river on our side. Not his side. Nothin’ major. Somethin’ minor. Yes, I admit that I was there. Yet I can swear that nothing happened that wasn’t well deserved. He started it. We wasn’t the invaders. Never crossed the bridge. Never got close. We didn’t git a chance, sir.

But even if my life depended on it, I couldn’t have identified the nigger, who it was, though I got a close look at him, to begin with, ‘cause they all look the same to me.

“He swung at me first,” Lucky replied, with a voice that sounded convincing and with a cowlick he couldn’t control, while his temper was just about as bad. That’s right. Lucky had a temper and always carried a comb with him. Oh, darn it. It did no good. The comb. His temper always got him in trouble. How was them niggers! Lord, have mercy. They was never up to no good. Troubling, very troubling. Hobos that came through town on the train didn’t always know which side to jump off of. Our side or their side? I recommended our side. My greatest cross though, and a heavy one it was, was when, with things the way they were, an outsider came to town and criticized things that had always been the way we did things. And I was the first one to tell ‘em that they didn’t have a brain in their heads. No sooner did I do that than I found myself defending our way of life and tellin’ ‘em that people who lived in glass houses shouldn’t throw stone and quoted the Bible and Rev. Black. I think Rev. Black had preached on the subject…for the benefit of us all…for ain’t he attemptin’ to improve us and makin’ us believe that there wasn’t a better place to live than right cheer and without anybody sayin’ otherwise. I had the highest regard for Rev. Black and happened to think that he knew what he was talking about. Then somebody would come along and try to sabotage everything.

Then we tried to explain what we was doing goin’ out with a Mexican lady.

“Now wait a minute before you jump conclusions. Now wait a minute,” Lucky repeated as he moistened his lips.

It was not what I wanted to do. That is I didn’t want to criticize somebody else and from within myself I was lookin’ for the power to restrain myself, but in my mind there wasn’t much difference between niggers and spicks, even though they was ladies, and so as it was becoming uncomfortable, I thought more than once about excusin’ myself since Lucky and me was best friends. It left more than a bad taste in my mouth. “’Tis a sin,” the reverend said. Almost might I say of myself, while keeping on the right side of the law, that I was tempted ‘cause she was an attractive Mexican lady, but I was becoming about fed up over havin’ to make excuses for Lucky when he decided to have (what he called) “some fun, ‘till it was gittin’ where I couldn’t tell the difference between a lie and the truth and was actually compromised once and gave into temptation once, and once was enough to teach me a lesson ‘cause I didn’t really want to be seen with a Mexican lady. The Holy Grail of adolescence and behind it all: nookie the imagined heaven. Flesh was flesh, but nope! Nope! Nope! Nope! Not with a Mexican lady! Wouldn’t it have been better to have saved yourself for a cheerleader or the Homecomin’ Queen? Holly sheet, Lucky! A Mexican!

Then I got to thinkin’…achin’. I was thinkin’ I was ready, I was. Let me be her Rudolph Valentino! The Sheik! Al Jolson, The Jazz Singer. Bella Donna! Me, the Beloved Rogue! Cha-cha! The Tango! Olay! Let me be God’s gift to women. But with a Mexican, a gotdamn spick! Then dang! What the hell! Touchdown! Compared notes. How we scored. Struggled with eyes and hooks. A missin’ button that could’ve gotten us in a trouble, in big time trouble.

Randy Ford

Randy Ford Author- GOOD PEOPLE 3rd Novel 57th Installment

      By ten o’clock in the morning, according to procedure, we finished sorting out all of the able-bodied, who then were sent to a work camp near Lublin.  The others were trucked to the woods nearby, where we efficiently shot them.

      Back in town I went to see Alice.  Until I told her that I missed her, she refused to let me in.  The circumstances warranted a smile.  Wanting to see me and satisfied that I intended her no harm, Fraulein Nauen unbolted her door.  We talked, and she said: “You’ve been busy.”  Then she excused herself by saying, “I have to check on something.  Just make yourself at home.”  Then she left the room.

      After a short while there was a knock at the door.  It was a very dark night, and with the lights on inside I couldn’t identify the person.  With Alice upstairs I decided to open the door.  That was a huge mistake.

      It was Lieutenant Wohlauf.  Dressed in a full uniform he entered in a brusque manner.  When he saw me he stiffened and in a gruff voice asked, “Where’s Fraulein Nauen?”

      “Up stairs.”

      “Nice night.”

      I went to the door which led to the stairway and called, “Fraulein Nauen, you have a visitor!”  Fraulein Nauen heard me and came right down.

      “If it isn’t Lieutenant Wohlauf!  Of all people!  I’m very flattered.”

      “You know my name.”

      “Of course I do”

      Seeing this charade I felt distressed.  From the way the two addressed each other I knew that they weren’t merely acquaintances.  Watching them I remembered how they stared at each other when she pushed him aside, and how he barely resisted and let her have the Jewish baby.  I felt perplexed.  My confusion must’ve registered on my face.

      Then before I could say anything came the lieutenant’s smile.  That surprised me.  It seemed as if he was capitulating, but I wasn’t about to suggest that he leave.  As he backed to the front door he stumbled and mumbled something that I couldn’t make out.  I think I heard, “I must have my head examined!” to which Alice replied, “nonsense!”  With that my heart sank.  And I then thought he said, “Dog!  Eat your heart out!”  With that he excused himself.

      While I recovered I heard a baby cry and footsteps over head.  Alice broke the silence by saying, “He means nothing to me.”  Why couldn’t I believe her?

      She began to cry.  Her words weren’t enough, so she cried.  Her denial meant nothing.  I knew the lieutenant was her lover.  During the whole dreadful scene I carefully restricted my emotions.

      That was how the lieutenant became my enemy, while along the deadly way he and I continued to give our best for Fuhrer, Volk, and Fatherland.  I knew him to be a man of courage and blessed with nerves of steel.  He, therefore, must’ve felt that he had nothing to fear from me.

      Often Lieutenant Wohlauf and his men went hunting through the countryside for hidden Jews.  It went without saying that I wanted to go with him, so I always volunteered.  Whenever I had the opportunity I’d go into buildings first and never hesitated to shoot Jews.  The lieutenant knew that.  Beyond that he took for granted my willingness to follow his orders.  How we personally felt about each other wasn’t suppose to get in the way.

      He didn’t care whether his men were happy or not.

     Correctly he always maintained his distance, but I personally stayed as close to him as I could.  I was biding my time and waiting for the right opportunity.

      Killing had more or less become a daily occurrence for us.  After the first time, thankfully, it didn’t bother most of us much.  And then came the opportunity I was waiting for.

      As I remember the camera he had was new to the lieutenant.  The rest of the patrol had gone ahead and sung as they went, when the lieutenant and I came upon a Jewish mother carrying a child.  Aiming the he wanted to photograph me aiming at the mother, and, as he snapped the picture, I pulled the trigger.  He yelled, “Good shot!”  It was so, indeed, but I wasn’t through.  No one saw me, heard the shot, or came to the lieutenant’s rescue when I then turned and shot him.  One cry, full of meaning, was his only response.  I then shot him again in the face.  The bullet struck the skull with such force that it blew the entire head away.

　     All I will say about what happened after that was that the killing continued.  And it got to point where it didn’t make any difference to me whether I lived or not.  Be assured of this….  There was no protection from a determined avenger.

      After the war I accepted a toast in memory of the good ol’ days.  I returned to Vienna, expecting to be treated as a prodigal son, but instead I saw how block after block of the city had been turned into rubble.  The reason for living was gone because I saw nothing of my old life.  Soon my home, which encompassed within its walls everything that I valued, became my prison.

      Shortly after returning to Vienna I took up my pen and began writing an apology in the form of an open letter.  I first established the scope of my disclosure.  I had to rely on discretion, and there was no one to give me guidance.  I’d only have myself to blame if it turned people against me.

      March 4, 1946.  The accounts of the Final Solution project as portrayed in magazines, in spite of some errors of little importance, were essentially correct.  As was later claimed my father wasn’t closely connected with it.  He did, however, maintain his position with the court throughout the war.  He was proud of his record and more so as his responsibilities increased as the war placed new demands on the court.  His pride seems justified.  It only later became imprudent for him to allude to it.

      His legacy was his extreme loyalty…first to Austria, but later to the Third Reich.  By design his whole life centered on his occupation.  But because he did his job he made many enemies.  Still he was too powerful to be seriously threatened.  But if we lost the war he foresaw greater perils for us all.

      Honestly corruption ruled many of our institutions.  During the great convulsions my father saw a need to chart a predictable course for himself.  He later offered that as a reason for absolving himself from the crimes of the court.  This embarrassment, of course, he shared with the judges, while many of his friends advised him to flee Austria.

      In his younger days my father served many judges.  He served with distinction.  Only during the war, and for the first time, did he begin to question the wisdom of the court.  He never agreed with its assault on the Jews.  In light of our great need for laborers during the war he couldn’t justify the killings.  But after a while, due to necessity, he accepted (or rather kept his mouth shut) the basic tenets of National Socialism.  With this capitulation eventually he accepted the Nazis’s concept of race.  This surprised me, though we were all full of surprises, for we all had guilt that we shared.

      Randy Ford

Randy Ford Author- GOOD PEOPLE 3rd Novel 26th Installment

      They nabbed her in front of their building.  On the same day, even the same hour, various warrants for various people came across Fritz’s desk.  He didn’t pay attention to the names.  If he had seen Eva’s name would he have recognized it?

      And it was all because Eva left the flat and for that the severest punishment.  Hatred seemed contagious.  Hatred (hatred immeasurable, unimaginable, and unchangeable) burned in the hearts of too many people.  And too many people lay the blame for their troubles on the Jews.  Who indeed had to accept personal responsibility when there was a handy scapegoat?  This would be the least lethal interval until after the war.  No one knew it, but the worst was yet to come.

     Do you know what really hurt Pauline?  The congratulations they bestowed on others and themselves.  They had the sense that the severest measures were indeed moral and justifiable.  And that was just the beginning.

     Weakness was offered as an excuse, but Pauline never totally disagreed that in general the Jews were a problem.  No outrage would’ve changed those feelings.  Outrage should’ve come from a strong sense of right and wrong.  So much might’ve been pardoned had Pauline paid attention to what she herself had taught her sons.  In light of that, Karl kept coming back to a single question: where was his mother when they carted off Eva?

      Karl became angry over the fact that Eva’s status wasn’t reported to him.  Remember how on his last night at home she came into his room to help him pack.  Looking back he particularly remembered her shaking.  Still she seemed totally focused on him, and he never thought of her as a Jew.  Yet she always said that she knew her place, which Karl accepted without much thought.  He even sometimes spoke to her in a rough manner.  And she never corrected him.  To be truthful, regardless how much the truth hurt, he bought into thinking that indeed there was an immutable hierarchy of races and that his family belonged somewhere near the top.

      But had she, instead of remaining passive, insisted on more respect, he perhaps would’ve grown up with a different set of values.  So affection for him, affection for all of them she gave, and in return she wanted nothing more than acceptance from them.  Only they couldn’t fully give her that. The rejection to which she had to reconcile herself was not only terrible, but as Karl later acknowledged, also turned out to be extremely brutal.

      The truth was, given who they were, they couldn’t have been totally displeased over what happened to Eva.  Karl never felt that he had as much revulsion and outrage over the cleansing of Vienna as he should’ve had, and every civilized person should’ve.  He felt that he should’ve been the first against it and then condemned it more vigorously than he did.  Why did he find it difficult to break through all of that?

      He imagined Eva’s condition quickly deteriorated.  He couldn’t exactly remember when it became apparent to him that he’d never see her again.  He’d blame himself for the senseless beatings she received.  The alarming thing was that the slightest indiscretion often led to death.      

 

      Because with his heart and soul he was at the time for the cause: Karl remembered that being his standby response to hard questions about his beliefs.  In order not to draw attention to himself he tried to remain calm and unemotional.  There was always the distinct possibility that without warning that they might want to kill him too.  In the camp, that was the rule rather than the exception: the frequent beatings were understood to be part of the game.

      Punishment designed to terrorize and to debilitate Eva gave her captors reason to celebrate.  A few more hours were probably all that she had left.  She wouldn’t suffer much more.  What!  To know that she had all of her hair cut off.  Half naked and bare footed….  Having fallen ill and hurt from the exposure and the beatings.

      As Jews they were awakened at every hour.  Beaten, tortured, and attacked by dogs, they were meant to suffer!  Karl, however, and many other Austrians (even those in camps) had to believe that they weren’t doing this.  It was the Germans.  Understand?  The Germans!

      How could anyone forget the suffering?  Or the daily torturing that took place?  He remembered the deaths that each morning revealed.  It was difficult to explain why these deaths were ever seen as morally laudable.

      The fatal consequences of starvation, exhaustion, deprivation and disease were in accordance with the Fuhrer’s wishes.  Of course afterwards it became easier to allege anything but the truth.  Shifting the blame became the game.  Men such as Eichmann, weren’t they primarily the ones responsible for the selection?  No one wanted to admit that they ever thought the reasons the Jews were killed were justifiable.  The truth was that the atrocities would never have happened without common consent.  Karl wouldn’t admit that the language of discrimination was used by almost everyone.  He found forgiving himself hard.

      Eva had but a common grave.  She had no ground to call her own.  She never had a home, but the Hertzl’s.

      Randy Ford

Randy Ford Author- I’M NOT DEAD YET, a new novel, 36th installment

“You know,” Jose told me, “I woke up questioning whether I could ever bring this girl home. She would want to go during Lent for the pageant.” It had always been a special time, he said, with his father carving, painting, and decorating a mask. “A Roman soldier was what he played, because playing that specific role had become a tradition, and nothing was more important to us during Lent, not even Mass. I first thought of my family and not the woman I dated, if we were to get serious: everyone one of them would have a hard time accepting her into our fold. On Easter, I walked around, thinking of my father in his mask, in his costume, and with his sword: our town would be filled with tourist, many of whom would be American. So my young lady would look like just another tourist. ‘It is Easter morning.’ The young American would be about to become my wife.” Since it would be Easter, the town wouldn’t notice her that much. “All of the town would be too busy putting on the pageant, including my family,” Jose said sadly. “My thoughts are full of contradictory feelings. Once during the evening my date asked me if were a Catholic. I didn’t know what difference it would make to her but I lied. You’re Seventh Day Adventist, are you not? Isn’t that awkward sometimes?”

Only on Saturdays I said.

He smiled haply and offered me a concoction he had been cooking. “It’s blood,” he said, and he went on to say that it was a favorite dish of his, which was something I had a hard time eating. Right after his first date, when he was still high from it, he made a point of telling me that she was Protestant and that was why he thought she had asked him about his faith. His main problem was to convince her that he wasn’t a Catholic.

I put the spoon of hot blood in my mouth and regretted it, as he instructed me to let it cool. He was very pleased that I tried it, and offered me a beer again, which I gladly accepted.

“I think of myself as being opened minded,” Jose explained as he took two beers out of his cooler-chest. “It doesn’t matter to me: all races are beautiful. But damn why did she go out with me?” He opened a bottle with a church key. “You know,” he continued, “my family wouldn’t say anything negative, but I would know what they were thinking. Would it eventually work out?”

“There are some things we can’t change,” I said. “You’ll always be a Filipino, and I’ll go on being an American, and….”

“No, shit! Then I should give up dating blue-eyed blondes.” After opening his own beer, he leaned against the windowsill. But he wasn’t comfortable. “You know, I wish I hadn’t dated someone so vivacious, so all-American,” he said. “Everywhere we went, we stood out, which I supposed was because she was so beautiful.” He told me that she was really built, which surprised me that he cared how stacked she was. He was already thinking about taking her home with him, home to the Philippines, to Boac, which had all kinds of ramifications, some nice and some not so pretty, creating a clash perhaps, culturally and religiously, if it got that far, after he had only dated her once. He couldn’t understand why right off the bat she asked him about his religion, and if she had known anything about the Philippines, she would’ve known that chances were he grew up in the Catholic Church.

The beers soothed us, and, after a long talk, Jose said he needed to study. He held out his beer for a toast and afterwards drank the rest of it. “I originally bought my car in hopes that it would help me fit in better,” he said, “But it has only made me stick out more, because it’s a hot convertible and a deep blue, and also because I chose to date a striking blonde with long hair.” So, Jose went on to say that he never thought about all of the ramifications. He had just bought the car, a temptation, and a drain on his time, and tooled around town in a way he had never dreamed of before. He now spent less time studying, which meant he could end up disappointing his family even more. (They no longer controlled him now that he lived thousands of miles away from them.) He used his car to boost his self-esteem. “It’s a nice car,” he said. “It gets all of twenty miles to the gallon.”

Jose told me about Boac. He began with the Moriones Festival. He said however that there was more to the island than the festival, much more on the island which was actually named Marinduque, after Marina and Garduk, two lovers who when they tried to elope died at sea and whose bodies formed the island that bore their names. Only Jose cared more about how his people resisted the Japanese and how it cost them dearly because he knew the part his father played, played then and afterwards in the reconstruction. If, on the other hand, you were to ask Jose what most characterized his people, he would reply their hospitality. They even had a word for it: “putong,” which literally meant crowning or crown, with the singing and dancing, the giving of palms and coin tossing that went with wishing visitors good luck, so why did he worry so much? For after all, they catered to tourists, domestic and foreign. They welcomed them, and thousands came every year to enjoy the natural beauty: the beaches, the caves, the mountains, and the springs, all were worth the trip. “I would make a good tour guide who would gladly show you around if I ever got the chance,” he said. Once he stopped giving his Chamber of Commerce spiel, he turned quite serious and said his parents underneath resented tourists and how they had taken over their island. After we talked, he studied, and his desk was suited for that. He had on his desk photographs of his family: one with just his parents and group one, which included him with a sister and five brothers. After studying for most of the afternoon, the idea of going for a ride in his car stuck Jose; he asked me if I wanted to go; and then went around the room, inviting everyone until he filled his car up.

Randy Ford

Randy Ford Author- I’M NOT DEAD YET, a new novel, 10th installment

      “Out of all the people I knew,” I confessed, “I suppose I disliked myself the most, which wasn’t surprising because I knew myself best.   I could easily get down on myself, endlessly pick at some small thing.   I would browbeat myself into depression; it was a kind of masochism.   Besides what I did to myself, kids made fun of me and bullied me.   The nearest I got to hurting myself had nothing to do with suicide; I was so bothered by something that I unintentionally rode my bicycle into an intersection without looking, and as soon as I did I saw a motorcycle barrowing down on me.   What a close call.   With me, I had the impression that very few kids liked me, and I used all kinds of silly techniques to get their attention.   They intimidated me with superior athletic ability; like a klutz, I couldn’t dance, catch a ball, or get a date…or, actually, the crucial thing was that I was beginning to learn that none of that was true, which slowly got into my thick skull; and it really helped when I discovered that I could write.   Thus, I artfully raised myself up from the pits.   So during my junior and senior years in high school I began to write, first as a club reporter and then as the editor of our school newspaper.   They liked me then mainly because I could get them into the newspaper, and my power then was as great as the star quarterback, or rather, the mascot, a guy running around in a rooster suit.

      Attention was thought to cure inhibitions, I said.   To understand me, I believed one had to look at both my transformation and the old me.   ”About the social milieu of a high school,” I continued to explain, “I don’t have much to say except that it gave me a perspective that I’ve used every since.   Perhaps that was why I could sympathize with the alienated and the persecuted.  ” Segregation existed where I grew up; I could identify with black people, though I had no contact with them until I changed that.   “The milieu of the north central Texas town where I grew up was a closed one,” I continued.   As I wrote in a high school article, “there are these two communities, separated by a river, and traditionally the white one has enjoyed more of the privileges.   But that seems to have been more of a perception of the whites than reality.   Only north of the river where the whites live is the color divide maintained and unchallenged.   South of the river the races mix more, and within that community the brightest choose to go to college just as they do on this side.”   But was there any justification for me on occasion to cross the river for a story?   I thought there was.   The period when I hated myself had perished and with that a new confidence emerged.   As if to prove it, I would traipse across the river and find a black person to talk to, and hope I wouldn’t misrepresent or patronize the son-of-a-bitch.   Or get stabbed as a result.

      Returning to the Philippines, I asked myself, “Would I be here today had I not been bullied?   It could partially explain my motivation, and perhaps in a sense give a clue as to the essence of me.   Yes, I’m very much interested in changing the world, or at least start down that path.   A little voice in the back of my head tells me, ‘You crossed the river once, you can do it again, and again.’   Back when I hated myself, I didn’t have a clue what was wrong.   I then found a job…my job today is basically the same.   This is crucial background information about me.”

      I stopped my rambling and finished my talk, “There you have it.   Some insight.   At my worse and at my best.   I want to thank you for having me here today.   I haven’t gotten around to writing about this yet.

Randy Ford

Randy Ford Author-Dating a Filipina, in two hundred words or less

      She appeared one evening when he hadn’t expected her.   He ordered a couple of beers, hoping he wouldn’t have to drink both of them.   He was in good spirits.   She was smaller than he was and dressed nicely in a casual dress, dressed for him in something she bought in a store rather than something she made.   The waiter took their order and left the two of them alone.

      She, not use to drinking but seeing two beers, accepted one of them.

      Don said, in a pleasant way and a calculated manner to put her at ease, “Lilly, is it chilly for you?   The wind’s from the sea, the Sulu Sea.   You can almost always expect it.”

      Don wasn’t sure what to talk about.   It was always hard to pull something out Lilly, and he didn’t expect this evening to be any different.   But she kept showing up.   So it didn’t matter then.   Maybe she was just shy.   And to Don (for someone who avoided Filipina companionship as a rule) this all seemed strange.   His idea of dating…not a one night stand, or a sexual encounter with a prostitute, but a real date, as though he knew what he really wanted.

     Finally she was really going to open up, and he was really going to listen.

     She asked, “Why did you come to Zamboanga?”

      Don said, “My job is here.   I look after people.   These people help your people.   It’s not hard work.   I don’t know how long I’ll be here.   It doesn’t really matter.   There are these things I can’t talk about, these things that have to do with the situation here and the Sulus and the Moros.   And I really wish I could talk about it with someone.   About my traveling from island to island.   I’m afraid that I say too much.   I listen and I assess.   Sometimes I get it right.   Sometimes I get it wrong.   My hope is that I get right more times than I get wrong, and pray nobody gets hurt.”   He spoke quietly, without a lot of emotion, knowing she didn’t understand him.

      She said, “Don.”

       “You remembered my name.   That’s really something.   You’re Lilly.”   This was a game they now played every time they met.

      A little later Don said, “So we’re getting to know each other.”

      “You haven’t said you like me.”

      “I’ve had a lot of things on my mind lately, Lilly.   They wanted to place someone on Sitangkai.   But there was the problem of isolation.   People there, in Sitangkai, haven’t seen that many white women.   They don’t want to believe that.   So someone came up with the idea of sending two or three white women there.   What a disaster that would be.   Don’t get the wrong idea.   I have bigger problems.   There are bigger problems than isolation and the color of someone’s skin.   Discrimination is prohibited.   I used to worry about skin color.   I wouldn’t go out with a woman of color.   You can’t get better people than people of color.   They’re more reliable.   On an evening such as this, influenced by the moon and the Sulu sea, you can be pretty damn sure I’m not thinking about anything as inconsequential as race.   Put aside the Bible, all the teachings of a lifetime, and close that book forever.   And let me be me.   Who am I kidding?   Maybe you heard of me and you came anyway.   Zamboanga is small enough.   I don’t have a girlfriend.   There are no rules that prevent me from dating someone like you.   Do I have to approach your parents?   Should I ask them directly or should I get someone to ask for me?   Or will they take a hint and figure it’s none of their business?   But what if we just want to be friends, you and me, and it is better for you for us to be simply friends?   But it worries me, Lilly.   I want to get it right.   It worries me that I won’t.”

      Lilly thought, “What’s he talking about?   That first night I never dreamed we would see each other again.   I just thought I’d find out about this man, this stranger, this American, and he seemed so strange, so different from what I imagined.

      It was after one of those dinners that she agreed to go to Don’s place.   She suggested it, out of curiosity, and for no other reason.   She didn’t foresee anything happening.   She was new at dating, and though shy in some respects, in many ways was actually assertive.   She knew what she wanted, always knew she would get it, but when it came to men she was never sure.   She made the mistake of trusting Don before she really knew him but dreamed so much about him that the real person would disappoint her.

      He said to her, “You have to excuse the mess.”

      Don had been working hard on making his place comfortable.

      He said to Lilly, “Most of this you see isn’t mine.   So I’ve borrowed.  So I’ve scrounged.   I’m temporarily here: that’s my excuse.   I would be interested in hearing what you think.   Why isn’t there a script for this?   I know someone in the theater in Manila.   I wish he were here to help us out.   In two hundred words, or less.”

Randy Ford

Contemplating The N-Word

by Ruby Bridges, available at Amazon.com

Where do I stand? It was only my search for a voice that led me back to my segregated hometown in Texas.  I meant to be “honest” and at the same time didn’t expect the truth to be so ugly. (I remember the “colored only” waiting rooms and water fountains.). Back then the State Fair of Texas had its “….day.” Here is my problem. As a white writer, when can I use the N-word, if ever?

Now, I understand the power of words and how words hurt and can gitcha killed. I understand the outrage when the Jacksons and Imuses slip up, but does that apply to me when I am trying to honestly portray a black period of our history in a short story. Why am I hesitating to use the word here?

By this time, though, I thought I had resolved the problem. After a long struggle I decided it was okay in an historical context and when no other word would fit or would have the impact needed for the story. That word…which was a word I often heard use…now cropped up repeatedly in a short story I wrote called “The Good ‘O Boys.”   And boy oh boy, I thought at last I had found my voice.

My research placed me in the Cotton Bowl, on a specific night, during the State Fair of Texas in the 50′s.  I grew up without ever being around a black person. At this time the only black men…African American… around were in a cage on the midway and for fifty cents or quarter I could get three balls to “dunk the nigger.” There!

I don’t know. I just don’t. The question is what does this make me. I recently read my short story in public and two African American women walked out before I finished it.  Other people there told me I should’ve warned everyone and given an explanation beforehand.  Maybe.  Or maybe I should bury the story in a file or destroy it.  I’m a so-called educated man and should be able to figure this out.  Shouldn’t I?

Early to bed.

Le Tour de France tomorrow.

Randy