More than a dozen of us around the dinner table were engaged in a cordial yet serious conversation examining race; the one issue that divides us on every level of society.
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This was a friendly exchange of comments and recollections; of some things said and done, and of many things unspoken and undone.
The setting was a home in Country Club Hills, one of the numerous venues playing host to the annual “Diversity Dinners” held last week in the south suburbs. It was a setting in which we were able to exchange opinions where we are, and where we should be on matters of race.
We were all but finished in a discussion on how we grew up in a racially divided society when I told how I learned about race from adults and what it cost me.
When I was 12 years old, my close friend was Ronald Bush, a black youth about my age. I can’t remember how we met, but 70 years later, I can recall events that are still fresh in my mind.
His family lived in a small two-bedroom apartment whose entrance was tucked away in an alley off Kedzie Avenue on Chicago’s West Side. I was immediately welcomed into his home as a friend. His mother was a warm, caring person and often asked me to stay for dinner. His father may have been connected with the circus at one time. He was an extraordinary wood carver and his figurines of circus life were exquisite and elegant.
There was a large Hallicrafters short wave radio in the small living room and Ronald’s father would sometimes set his watch by the receiver’s hourly time signal, which came from somewhere in the world. After-dinner family entertainment often included a large picture puzzle dumped on the kitchen table and we would all work on it. I was often asked back the next day to help finish the puzzle. It was here I first encountered black publications, such as “Ebony “and “Jet” and became aware of a lifestyle that I never knew existed for blacks.
It wasn’t long before I began to hear adults asking why I always was with Ronald.
“Why can’t your son find white friends,” someone asked my mother.
Ronald was my friend, but to a 12-year-old, adults can be intimidating authority figures who “know better.” I soon began spending less time with my friend.
I met Ronald’s father one day and he asked why I stopped coming around. I think I made some excuse about schools and walked away. I never saw my friend again.
To this day I regret that decision.
In the two-plus hours of conversation at the “Diversity Dinners” we discussed schools, aspects of religious worship, acceptance of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community — and even the best places to retire. We were all of good faith trying to get along.
We preach to the chorus, I once complained to Barbara Moore, the former community affairs director for Park Forest. She replied there are always new songs to learn.
One of the co-hosts for the dinner began the conversation with a classic question: “What decade of your life did you like the most?”
I replied the next decade but that is not my first choice. To me it was the 1940s – especially 1945.
On Aug. 14, 1945 I held my mother’s hand as we tried to walk down the middle of State Street amid thousands of celebrants on the day World War II ended. Six weeks later the Chicago Cubs were in the World Series.
So, at the age of 10 I knew two important things: We were on the verge of universal peace and the Cubs were going to be in a lot of World Series games.
I did not hold my breath waiting.
Jerry Shnay is a freelance journalist and can be reached at [email protected].
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