Real Racism

Being a Canadian horseman, I didn’t understand the overt racism of the US during the 60’s, not to say there isn’t racism in Canada, there is, but it was never so open and dangerous. The US has changed, the old blatant racism has nearly disappeared; today, it has been replaced with perceived racism. Perceived racism is much harder to define: it is a racism that is often committed unknowingly and without malice. Often it can only be detected by the sensitivity of the victim; so maybe, I still don’t understand racism, at least modern day racism. Yet back in the 60’s, it was much easier to recognize.

I have worked as a traveling horseman or gypsy most of my life; part of the problem with that lifestyle is that you only work and travel where people like you and your skills and are willing to pay for them. I managed to work in 40 states, some of them for just a few days, but for a long time, I had a group of customers that stretched from Long Island, through New Jersey to Eastern Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, Alabama, Louisiana, Arkansas, Illinois, Kentucky and back again in a never ending circle. Customers die, get divorced, go broke, hire someone else, or sell all their horses; the business is dynamic and always changing. In the early days, I was working in the Lexington area and I kept getting requests to travel further and further east. Eventually, I was working in the Sommerset area, I loved the country and the people and the people seemed to enjoy me, but it really didn’t seem like they had enough money to be paying me the wages I was asking. Yet they kept telling their friends about me and I kept getting more and more work; until, I realized that these people were just too poor to be hiring me; although, unlike many wealthy people, not one of them ever complained about my prices. They watched every move I made with their horses; like they were watching something really important and acted grateful that I was gracious enough to work on their horses.

These country people were some of the nicest people I had ever met and at one time I was pricing farms down there and considered relocating. There was only one ugly incident that stands out in my mind and I can’t erase that experience from my memory. I was working on a team of mules for an old mule skinner who looked to be the quintessential cartoon character of a ridge running hillbilly, complete with tobacco stained chin with several days worth of whiskers, a few oddly spaced yellow teeth, a straw hat, and bib overalls. He was thrilled to watch me float his draft mules, pull their wolf teeth, make a set of work shoes, turn heel and toe caulks, and pull clips. He told me the mules looked like they were ready to go to the state fair.

A neighbor came over to take in the show, he was a handsome black man with a ten year old son. They were well spoken without the thick patois so common among the mountaineers in that area, they were also extremely polite and respectful. I answered some intelligent questions from the boy and his dad told me with obvious pride, that his son would use the information I was giving him in school; he told me the boy had a mind like a whip and loved school. That really made me feel good to be answering questions that were being used to build knowledge in a young mind.

The old mountaineer asked me about remedies to soften and harden hooves and we discussed the remedies that were hundreds of years old. He then started into a story about an old black man who had trouble keeping his feet warm during a particularly cold winter. Apparently, someone told him to put Jalapeno peppers in his boots when he walked to work and his feet would stay warm all day. In theory it works, but the oil from the peppers leached into his socks and started a chemical burn. The man made it to work and had to take off his boots and soak his feet. The old mountaineer thought the cruel joke was extremely funny and said, “That was one hot footed Nigger.”

I was shocked at what the Black man and his precious son were exposed to and expected to endure in silence by this cruel and insensitive old man. While the old man was laughing, I looked the Black man in the eye and he looked directly back at me, for a few seconds we stared at each other in mute communication using a method as old as time. He then nodded with a barely perceptible movement of his head to tell me he understood my distaste of the incident and that he had to bear these indignities in silence.

There was a great deal of communication between us with just the eyes and a slight head movement; to this day, I wonder if I should have voiced my contempt for the old man’s language. The sad thing is, I might have made things worse for the dignified Black man and his son. I wish I could have figured out how to do more, but I feel like I failed and I feel so sorry for that inquisitive Black boy with his innocent enthusiasm that had so much promise for the future.

Those days of overt racism are over, racism still exists, but comparatively speaking it is much milder and sometimes only perceived in the imagination of the overly sensitive. Working in those southern states during some of the most flagrant days of racism gives me a perspective that many have missed, but in the big cities, I have been on the receiving end the so-called reverse racism; although, racism is racism and hatred is hatred, no matter what race is involved in hatred towards another race.