As the calender is lean at the moment, I thought I'd share a small bit of oral history from my Great Aunt.
My mother's aunt, a delightful 93 year old woman, grew up in Southern Illinois in a place you won't find on a map called "Frogtown." We were discussing the election of Barak Obama and how I hoped it would, among other things, improve race relations in America. As is common when talking with old folks, this reminded her of a story. It would have taken place around 1928.
"Well," she said to me, "when I were growin' up they wouldn't let black folks stay overnight in the county. Any of 'em come through why the police would escort 'em through to the other side to make sure they didn't stick around. We called 'em 'niggers', you know. That was the only word we had for 'em. And all I heard about 'em was how awful they was and how you couldn't trust 'em, and how they'd steal from you and that they'd break your neck soon as look at you. So that's what I thought, you know? I didn't know nothin' else.
"Well then I was on about thirteen or so and I took a bus to St. Louis to visit my Grandmaw, and when we stopped a couple towns down the road , this black lady come sit right down next to me. Oh, I was so scared! I didn't know just what she was goin' to do to me. But then she started talkin' and she was so nice! She was just about the friendliest person I ever met, and the two of us had a good talk all the way to St. Louis.
"And I realized that all that stuff people said about them was just garbage. Includin' my parents. They're just like anyone else. Some of 'em are nice, and some of 'em are not so nice, and it don't have anything to do with what color they is."