For Juneteenth 2018
Where I’m From
I grew up in San Antonio, Texas, a city that grew from 654,153 people in 1970 to 785,880 in 1980
and 935,933 in 1990 when I left to go to college. The metropolitan statistical area for San Antonio is
now home to nearly 2 million people.
I never attended a segregated school, but I as a young child knew that the part of town where
someone lived said a lot about their family. The closer into town a family lived the less money they
had (unless you lived in Oh-Nine, a bedroom community of “old money). With my childhood eyes:
The billboards in Spanish on the West Side usually meant folks spoke two languages at home, code-
switching with the best of them. African Americans lived on the East Side, near historically Black
The further out a family moved from downtown meant larger homes and yards - regardless of race.
Families had more money the further they lived from town - money to cover bills, lessons, and
vacations. Families often moved “out” of town, but very seldom did they move “across” town. When
I was a child, San Antonio counted five military bases as major employers for the metropolitan area.
And as always, the closer to a military base you lived, the more mixed the population seemed to be
to my eyes - with children who were born or started school in exotic places like Rammstein,
Okinawa, or Lakenheath.
As an adult and a geographer, I know the cultural distribution of a city may be due to redlining, de
facto segregation and chain migration; not simply convenience as I thought at age six.
The Phone Call
Which brings me to where I am today - a married, Episcopal, heterosexual, Democrat, White
woman between 45-55 years of age, living in the county outside a Southeastern Conference (SEC)
college town of about 24,000 (without the students) in the Mid-South. A town with a history of racial
violence from the Civil War through Jim Crow to the Civil Rights Movement and on into the 21st
Century. The Ku Klux Klan visited campus in official regalia at least once since I started work here
nearly 11 years ago, and Westboro Baptist Church protested here, too.
Friday afternoon, while running errands in town, RMD’s (my husband) boss called him in to work the
3-6pm shift as a pick-up driver for a rental company. With neither his company shirt nor ball cap in
the car, I dropped him off. Off he went to pick up clients, move cars, and be the hospitable, funny
guy that I know RMD to be.
RMD and the other pick-up drivers joke, “No young person can do this job since you have to have
nothing to do except wait for a phone call from the ‘Boss’.” All of the drivers are men and over 60
years of age. About two-thirds of the drivers are African American, and from my outside view, they
would all call themselves “friends.” I accompany RMD to company parties, gospel choir concerts,
and hospital visits to see his colleagues.
I went about my Friday afternoon piddling, paying bills, and waiting for 6pm to pick my husband up. I
watched a movie and ran a bit late leaving the house. He called while I was en route, and I
expected to be chastised for running late and leaving him waiting after the office closed. Instead,
RMD sounded a bit off.
When I asked how he was, he replied flatly, “I was arrested.”
At the risk of offending some, my response was less than collected and professional - “WTF?!”
“Well, detained. Not quite arrested.”
[Keep in mind, I’m driving and talking on the phone - via the Bluetooth connection to the car stereo -
but driving nonetheless.] My mind and heart raced.
RMD proceeded to tell me that three cars pulled “CJM*” and him over. “But, it’s all good.”
“Who was driving?”
“I was.”
“Why were you pulled over?” [Note: Company drivers can’t have any moving violations or they are
let go. Makes sense. If your job is to drive, you’d best do it well.]
“It was all a misunderstanding. I will explain later.”
He started to giggle a bit, but visions of my 68 year-old, 6’4”, 256 lb, White male husband and his
60+ year old, 5’9”, 200 lb, African American male colleague pulled over - and detained - by three law
enforcement officers in the Deep South flash through my head.
RMD and CJM arrived at a local body shop, not far from our home, shortly after 5pm to pick up a
company car a client left at the shop when their own car was repaired. They found the car, but
couldn’t find the keys. One of them went to the front door, the other the back, to look for someone
who might have the keys.
The front door was unlocked, but the alarm sounded when CJM opened the door. RMD knocked
[probably banged] on the back door and hollered to see if anyone was there. No one replied. No
keys, either. So, with another client waiting for the car in question at the office, RMD and CJM
headed out to get a different vehicle for the client at the local airport - in a new model, black Ford
F150.
Shortly after RMD pulled out of the body shop, three county sheriff’s deputies in three cars flashed
lights and sirens. RMD didn’t pull over immediately, because he didn’t want to stop on a bridge.
Instead, he motioned to the lead car that he would pull over in an exit/on ramp pullout. RMD pulled
over, stopped the car, rolled down the window, and placed both hands out the window.
Keep your hands visible.
Don’t make any sudden moves.
Only speak when they speak to you (Thomas 2017, 24).
RMD knew exactly why he was being pulled over and SAYS he wasn’t nervous at all.
To hear RMD tell the story is quite different than for me share it in a blog post. CJM didn’t say a
word. The deputies were anxious. RMD, CJM, and the black F150 were on security tape. The
deputies knew exactly who they were looking for and why - “breaking and entering a business.”
RMD joked to me later, “CJM and I looked like a couple of meth dealers. Old dudes. New truck.”
The deputies called the rental company. The body shop owner arrived and found the keys in
question. And, after almost an hour, RMD and CJM delivered the car to the waiting client at the
office.
What Could Have Been
The fact that I am writing this post the following Tuesday and not from the county detention center or
the regional hospital on Friday evening is evidence that the story didn’t end like so many on the
What’s easy for me to see from my privileged spot at home is that it could have gone so very wrong.
We joke that RMD is my personal “Brute Squad” - a reference to Fezzik (played expertly by Andre
the Giant) in The Princess Bride. He stood in the back of the room at my dissertation defense to
keep time looking more like a Mafioso than the then friend of a soon-to-be academic. RMD has
been 6’4” since he was 16, or there about. He intimidated me when we first met.
RMD has a myriad of faults. (We all do, right?) He gets angry. He holds a grudge. He wears the
same shoes out to the barn and back into the house. But, there are two things he is not. My
husband is neither a bully nor a racist. That’s not to say he won’t put someone in their place if he
feels they’ve stepped out of line - think ninth grade biology students in an inner-city school or a rude
cashier at a Cincinnati grocery store (He still won’t shop at Kroger… any Kroger.)
My husband sees color - as I do - for all the richness and vibrance that flavors the community where
it blooms. Does he like hip-hop? Nope; he tolerates me listening to it. Does he love cajun/creole
cooking and all of the spices? Dayum right! Will he go out of his way to help a friend? Absolutely.
Both of us know the gravity of the events Friday afternoon. We watch the news occasionally. We
Mercy (Stevenson 2015). If you are White and haven't read these three books and The Hate U Give
(Thomas 2017), you really must! It will help you understand how and why we as White people (yes,
the collective "we") hold privileged status in American society regardless of our income.
Living the events of Friday, and knowing how different they could have been, cements what RMD
and I already knew. Regardless of having bills to pay or wants that must wait until needs are met,
we possess a level of privilege in society simply due to the lighter pigment of our skin. Our grandson
will never be followed and asked why he doesn’t stay with the group on a college tour.
I will never know exactly what happened last Friday afternoon, but I trust my husband’s retelling of
the events. I’m grateful RMD was driving and CJM was the passenger for both of their sakes. How
might the story have played out? RMD and I both wondered this. We spoke about it frequently all
weekend. How differently things could have been if… CJM was driving, or the cops were trigger
happy, or….
*CJM is a pseudonym.
References
Crowder, T, Forrester, C, and Morgan, D . (2017). Liberal redneck manifesto: Draggin' dixie outta the
dark. Atria Books.
Grant, R. (2015). Dispatches from Pluto: Lost and found in the Mississippi Delta. Simon & Schuster
Paperbacks.
The Hate U Give, by Angie Thomas, 2017 National Book Award Longlist, Young People's Literature.
(n.d.). Retrieved from http://www.nationalbook.org/nba2017-ypl-thomas-the-hate-
u-give.html#.WylRb6knbR0
Lee, J. C., & Park, H. (2017, May 18). In 15 High-Profile Cases Involving Deaths of Blacks, One
Officer Faces Prison Time. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2017/05/17/us/black-deaths-police.html
Oxford, Mississippi Population 2018. (n.d.). Retrieved from http://worldpopulationreview.com/us-
cities/oxford-ms-population/
Population history of San Antonio from 1880 - 1990. (n.d.). Retrieved from http://physics.bu.edu
/~redner/projects/population/cities/sanantonio.html
The Princess bride. (1987). Twentieth Century Fox Film.
San Antonio, Texas Population 2018. (n.d.). Retrieved from http://worldpopulationreview.com/us-
cities/san-antonio-population/
Stevenson, B. (n.d.). JUST MERCY. Spiegel & Grau, 2015.
Thomas, A. (2017). The hate u give. Walker books.
