Growing Up with a Black Cop part 2

[AthenaAwakened]

These are my folks on their wedding day, October 19, 1944.

They were real people. And they were black people.

They didn't do drugs and they didn't raise thugs.

(Momma made that dress btw.)

Some people seem to think my folks, and millions like them, were not and are not real. That we all are lazy, or drugged out, or rioting at the drop of a hat, or plotting assassinations of random police officers.

My father was one of those random police officers, so no, we aren't doing any of that.

So before you discuss race, racism, and how broken black families are, think on this picture and this memory I have of my folks, real people who lived real lives.
_________

I remember my parents' card parties. Momma would cook nearly all day and Poppa would set up the tables and make what seemed like a billion trips to the store because Momma always thought she had forgotten something. Then they would get ready for their guests. The style was "casual-sharp."

Then the guests would arrive. They all looked so pretty, so stylish.

The buffet would be laid and then the playing would begin. Friday evening until Sunday morning, the booze flowed, the feast was eaten, music played and people danced and laughed and sometime tempers flared over a lost trick but everybody calmed down quick and the laughter and music started again.

Pinochle and Bid Whist were the orders of the day. Not everyone stayed the three days, but there was always someone else to take the place of the people who left.

And the KIDS. We always got to have a sleep over, but we didn't sleep. We did the things kid do. We tried to steal Momma's homemade rum balls or play pranks on the adults as they tried to steal a nap. And of course there was sitting quiet in the dark at the top of the stairs in the tiny hours, listening to gossip and the wisdom adults speak in the quiet times.

And the whole time, the games kept going as did the happiness.

People came and went and there was always people waiting to play, to laugh, to live.

 

[TSwizzle]

Some people seem to think my folks, and millions like them, were not and are not real.

Who are these "some people" you speak of?

 

[bilby]

Some people seem to think my folks, and millions like them, were not and are not real.

Who are these "some people" you speak of?

That you feel the need to ask strongly suggests that you know at least a part of the answer.

He who seeks knowledge of others should look first to himself.

 

[TomC]

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These are my folks on their wedding day, October 19, 1944.

They were real people. And they were black people.

They didn't do drugs and they didn't raise thugs.

(Momma made that dress btw.)

Some people seem to think my folks, and millions like them, were not and are not real. That we all are lazy, or drugged out, or rioting at the drop of a hat, or plotting assassinations of random police officers.

My father was one of those random police officers, so no, we aren't doing any of that.

So before you discuss race, racism, and how broken black families are, think on this picture and this memory I have of my folks, real people who lived real lives.
_________

I remember my parents' card parties. Momma would cook nearly all day and Poppa would set up the tables and make what seemed like a billion trips to the store because Momma always thought she had forgotten something. Then they would get ready for their guests. The style was "casual-sharp."

Then the guests would arrive. They all looked so pretty, so stylish.

The buffet would be laid and then the playing would begin. Friday evening until Sunday morning, the booze flowed, the feast was eaten, music played and people danced and laughed and sometime tempers flared over a lost trick but everybody calmed down quick and the laughter and music started again.

Pinochle and Bid Whist were the orders of the day. Not everyone stayed the three days, but there was always someone else to take the place of the people who left.

And the KIDS. We always got to have a sleep over, but we didn't sleep. We did the things kid do. We tried to steal Momma's homemade rum balls or play pranks on the adults as they tried to steal a nap. And of course there was sitting quiet in the dark at the top of the stairs in the tiny hours, listening to gossip and the wisdom adults speak in the quiet times.

And the whole time, the games kept going as did the happiness.

People came and went and there was always people waiting to play, to laugh, to live.

So much like my family.

Kids, cards, food, people coming and going...
Yeah.
Tom

 

[TomC]

And the KIDS. We always got to have a sleep over, but we didn't sleep. We did the things kid do.

How often did you get in trouble for playing outside in your "nice" clothes?

I got in trouble for getting my church pants dirty more than once.
Tom

 

[AthenaAwakened]

And the KIDS. We always got to have a sleep over, but we didn't sleep. We did the things kid do.

How often did you get in trouble for playing outside in your "nice" clothes?

I got in trouble for getting my church pants dirty more than once.
Tom

Homecoming at church.

I remember the mothers of the church, dressed in Sunday splendor, each with a clean pressed apron folded neatly over their arms and everyone carrying a cardboard box, inside each of which would be culinary masterpieces no TV chef today could ever duplicate.
Simple dishes lovingly made from gardens meticulously kept. All covered and wrapped in tea towels, the food within still warm from the stove. Slow and steady walked these women, lest one drop, one crumb be spilled.

We children ran in circles with our heads down, for woe betide the child who scuffed a shoe, ran through a puddle or worse, fell in the dew damp grass and arose with a (gasp) stain! Neither blue suit pants or white knit tights could hide the sin of dirtying up your Sunday best. And no Grandmother would let such behavior go unchecked. They had the tendency to want to get to the seat of matter, so to speak.

Songs ran long on such Sundays. Just knowing that in the dinning hall, right behind the choir loft, there were cakes and pies and banana puddings set every kid to fidgeting in their seats, turning and staring at the clock over the church front door and through sheer force of will, pushing the hands of the clock to go faster, all to no avail.

And then the pastor rose and every child sank low in the pew, eyes rolling to heaven for we all knew only God could save us now. Every word rolled slow and deliberate, every pounding of the fist struck like the dead bell knelling, and every AMEN just drew out the space between the tick and the tock of the too slow clock.
And Just when your stomach was preparing to eat your backbone and all hope was just about to be abandoned...
"A---men!, (Let the church say) A----men! (Let the church say) A----men, Amen, Amen"

The song rang out like a glorious reprieve. The Choir marched down from the loft and surrounded the alter, the deacons stood and clapped their hands, the pastor clapped and stomped his feet.
And we children, risen like Lazarus, clapped and stomped and sang too. For with the benediction came the blessing and with the blessing came chicken, ham, greens, potato salad, and that most holy sacrament of church day feasting...

Gramma's Real Butter Down Home Just Right Pound Cake
Let the Church say AMEN!!!!!

 

[Gospel]

Athena. You should avoid getting too real. It ends threads. Just saying.

 

[Tigers!]

And the KIDS. We always got to have a sleep over, but we didn't sleep. We did the things kid do.

How often did you get in trouble for playing outside in your "nice" clothes?

I got in trouble for getting my church pants dirty more than once.
Tom

Amen brother.