Note: This was written after John Green read Andre’s story.
If I ever considered using a racial slur when I was younger, Dial soap was on the menu. I learned this from my dad. Bob conditioned me to the differences between us all and even more so, the sameness.
Growing up on the Eastside of Columbus, Ohio, was not difficult in the seventies. There was no ‘bussing’, transporting white children to school in black neighborhoods or making black children attend white schools. School was school. We played together, grew up together, fought side by side together, lived and loved together. It was home.
When my family moved to Texas, we had only been there a week when it became apparent I was so lucky to have been raised in such a diverse environment. My dad and I drove from our home in the countryside to a small East Texas town to pick up construction material and a few groceries. On the way out of town, we stopped at a grocery store. It was one of those old country stores – small, well lit, clean. It had the smell of fresh bread baking and home.
Dad and I did our shopping and went to the check out – there were three registers. An older black man came around the corner from the office and started ringing up our purchase.
“How’re ya’ll doin’ today? Did you find everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” my dad answered.
“Could you answer a question for me?” the owner asked.
“Sure, what’s on your mind?” dad replied.
“Is there a reason why ya’ll decided to shop in this store?”
My dad answered, “Well, we live about twelve miles out of town going east, and this store is right on the way in and out of town. It’s clean, the produce is fantastic, the prices low. If you don’t mind, I’d like to shop here all the time.”
The owner replied, “No, I’s just wondering – ya’ll are welcome anytime.”
My dad and I sacked up our groceries and made our way to our car in the parking lot. When we got in and buckled up, my dad turned to me and said, “You know what, Johnny?”
“No, dad.”
“These folks are still fighting the civil war.”
Good ol’, Bob.
I don’t understand why people treat others differently because of the color of their skin or their religion. When I read Andre’s story, I cried – especially when I saw him standing there with that big smile and his arms around his family.
I don’t often judge people when I see them at first sight, but Andre, my brother, you are a good person. I’d be proud to call you my friend and brother. I’m that certain, without ever having met you or hearing your voice. I pray that you go home – hold on to your grandkids and live a long, happy life. You deserve that. You earned it. And I mean every word.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’. In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583
