.png)
Written by Clark Zlotchew
"There's a lot of bad consequences that flow from segregation. We live separately. We don't learn about each other. And yet, we separate based on, basically, race. And I believe it's got to stop."
We were off duty, and were on the fantail of our naval vessel, when John elbowed me, and pointed to the horizon almost dead ahead. I looked in that direction and saw it. I wouldn't even have noticed it if he hadn't pointed it out. Not yet, anyway. The day was perfect. The sky was clear blue. The sun was shining and felt warm on my back. The Atlantic was a sparkling blue and almost as calm as a lake. That was unusual for our position, just about a hundred nautical miles southeast of Cape Hatteras. The weather in that zone is often stormy. Very often.
Correction: Usually. I guessed we hit that area at just the right time. I probably shouldn’t have been counting my chickens before they were hatched. But when I squinted and concentrated on that spot on the horizon I saw it. It wasn't much, or rather it didn’t seem like much. It was a kind of dirty-yellowish smudge the size of my thumbnail.
"What on earth is that?" I asked him.
"A storm, a really bad one. Maybe even a hurricane. I've seen them before and even been in a couple."
I looked at the sky again. Just a few fluffy white clouds up there against a field of bright blue. It was hard to believe there was a storm up ahead. On the other hand, if that weird-looking thing on the horizon was not a storm, then what was it? I said. “You're telling me that little yellow smudge on the horizon is a storm?"
"Better believe it."
I was on a training cruise from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to Savannah, Georgia in 1956 around Easter. It was a patrol craft with a permanent list to starboard of about forty-five degrees. That meant it would lean over sharply even in perfectly calm waters, even when it was docked in port. So heading for that storm could not possibly be a pleasant experience.
The smudge grew wider and wider, covering more and more of the horizon and getting closer to us as we sailed on. About forty-five minutes after John pointed it out, it covered the entire horizon dead ahead. The water was still calm, the sun was still shining, it was still a beautiful day. Then we went into it and everything changed. Everything.
The bow disappeared first, engulfed by the now white-grey cloud, then the bridge, and then John and I were right in it.
All in a matter of seconds. He had told me we ought to go below decks, fast, but I wanted to see it, wanted to see what it looked like, wanted to feel it. In just one second, that beautiful day disappeared as though it had never been there. The sun was gone. We were in a murky darkness, strong gales, heavy pelting rain. And we were heaving up and down, rolling from port to starboard, the bow dipping below the surface, then lifting above it while the fantail plunged under. One minute I felt my guts being drawn down down down, the blood pulled from my head to my stomach, while the next minute I felt I was floating lightly in the air, my feet rising above the deck. I was dizzy and couldn't think straight. John and I turned to head for the hatchway to go below decks.
And it's strange how it can be a beautiful day – the sea as calm as a lake, the sun shining brightly-- and you might not notice the danger signals. In fact, you probably will not notice them, because they seem so insignificant and so distant. But it's out there, the storm, and you're heading straight for it. And, as I was soon to discover, there is more than one kind of storm.
When you're in the storm, it feels as though the whole world is in it too, even though you know that for hundreds of miles, maybe thousands of miles around, the sea is calm and blue and the sun is shining.That other world might just as well not exist as far as you're concerned at that moment. Everything's dark and dangerous. Besides, you're suffering from nausea and cannot think straight.
John and I made it safely below decks. I was thinking how he and I and the whole crew were just little insignificant beings on that big hunk of steel that's the ship, like ants on a metal bucket. Yet even that big hunk of steel was being tossed around in the sea like a tin can, the huge grey waves heaving themselves up like mountains, the ship flying to the dizzying peak, then falling down into the valley, the wind howling, and a huge wall of water comes crashing down on the deck, and you think the ship is going down and never coming up... That's when you feel the power of Nature, of God, and realize how small, how insignificant, a man really is. It knocks all the pride out of you. No matter who you are, how important you may be, you understand you're really nothing more than an insect.
Then, safely below decks, I wanted to puke up my guts but kept straining to hold it down, even though you're not supposed to. I was weak and dizzy, flying up into the air like a feather, then dropping down like five hundred pounds of lead...
Around Easter of 1956 I was on a two-week training cruise with the U.S. Naval Reserves. We boarded our vessel at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and were on a course for Savannah, Georgia.
I'd made friends with the other Reservist on board, whose name I don’t recall (a period of sixty-seven years represents a long time to preserve an accurate memory). He was a good man. A little older than I was, was, perhaps, about twenty-eight years old. He was somewhat overweight and was African American, or as we used to say in those days, he was a Negro. He was a social worker from South Philadelphia. I had to admire him. Social workers did not and still do not make wonderful salaries and they often live in depressed neighborhoods close to their clients. They sometimes find themselves in dangerous situations. All this just so they can try to help people who need it.
I asked him why he did social work. His answer was that it made him feel needed, and that nothing was better than being needed. So, this man, let’s call him John, was what I considered an upstanding citizen and a good man.
Two days after having left the Brooklyn Navy Yard and passing through that storm off Cape Hatteras, we made port in Savannah. John and I were the only Reservists aboard, and we had established a real friendship and commonality of interests. Naturally, I was all ready to go ashore on liberty with my fellow Reservist. But John started behaving in a way that seemed strange to me, when I suggested going on liberty together.
"How about going on liberty together?" I said, "We'll have a good time."
He looked down at the deck and shook his head.
I was really surprised. I said, "We get along pretty well, don't we?"
He told me that that wasn’t the problem.
"Well, okay, if you’ve got other plans..." I said.
He looked kind of embarrassed, and shook his head again. "That’s not it, Clark," he said.
"Well, then, what is the problem?"
He sighed, raised his eyes from the deck to look me in the eye, and said,
"Look, Clark..." Then he looked down at the deck again and grumbled,
"Man, don't you know how things are in the South?"
"Well, yes, I guess I do. I mean, I know all about segregation…"
"All about it...? Listen, Clark, it’s nothing personal... It's just that a white boy and a colored boy," that's how we used to talk in those days, "a white boy and a colored boy just do not go on liberty together in Savannah, or anywhere else in the Deep South..."
He saw I didn't really understand, so he said, very quietly, "Just take my word for it." Then he looked up, smiled a strange kind of smile, and said, "Maybe you'll even see for yourself."
I really didn't know what he was talking about. Consequently, I was disappointed. I had thought we were getting along very well, and now I find that the man wanted to get rid of me, or so I thought. After all, I was accustomed to going to many venues with the team in my home state of New Jersey. And some of those my teammates were Black, or Negroes, as we used to say. It was never a problem. It would never even occur to any of us that it could be a problem. No one thought twice about it. It would have seemed as ridiculous to us as being told we couldn’t take Mike with us because he had red hair. I asked John exactly what he meant and who was going to stop us. Looking back, I realize I was painfully naïve.
"Look," he said, "I know these places. I've been in these kinds of towns before. White folks go to the white parts of town, and colored folks go to their own part of town. No use talking about it, I tell you. That's just the way it is, and I don't want any trouble. Understand? We can't go ashore together, so just forget about it."
Just before the off-duty crew went on liberty in Savannah, one of the Chief Petty Officers gave the whole crew a pre-liberty lecture. First, he spoke about venereal disease and showed us photographs that would make your hair stand on end. Actual photographs, of these poor guys in the advanced stages of syphilis, with the roof of their mouths eaten away, with swollen genitals... And here I had just gotten over being seasick. And the Chief said the only sure way to avoid these horrible diseases was to “avoid contact.” Then he kind of looked around the room at us, and said, "Now I don't know if all you geniuses are bright enough to understood what I mean by 'avoid contact.'"
I guess he must have seen some blank faces on some of the men, so he added, "That means don’t have sex, in case you swabs don't know what I mean by avoiding contact. Got that? Okay, so when you see some woman winking at you from some doorway, just think of these pictures and ask yourself if it's worth it. Or, if you’re so damn horny you just gotta do it, for heaven’s sake, use protection. And I’m not talking about side arms.” Then he looked around at our faces, kind of laughed and added, "And if you come across some woman who's too much for you to handle, just send her to me." Today, of course, that sexist remark would not be made.
Well, we all laughed. It kind of broke the tension we'd been under listening to the lecture and looking at the pictures. But the lecture and those pictures stayed with us too.
Then the Chief spoke to us about getting into fights with the locals, or rather, not getting into fights. First, he looked around to see if everyone was paying attention, and then began to talk.
"You boys are about to go on liberty, and I'm sure a lot of you are going to want some liquid refreshment." Then he looked around to see if we knew what he meant. I guess he saw some blank faces –again-- so he added, "that means you're probably going to find yourselves in some bar having a drink. Of the alcoholic persuasion, that is. Who knows, maybe even two drinks..." He paused for a minute, got the polite laughs he was looking for, and continued.
"Well," he said, "sometimes drinks don't mix too well with strangers, especially if you're a Northerner and the strangers are Southerners.I mean, there's a tendency to get into fights under those circumstances." He paused, and with a beatific expression radiating from his countenance, added, "At least that's what they tell me."
Everybody laughed, because you got the feeling he was talking from sad experience, but was trying to sound innocent. Then he put on a real serious face, and said, "Now, men, I want to give you some good advice." Then he stopped again and looked around at everyone to make sure we were listening.Or he might have thought the suspense would make us pay more attention. Finally, he said, pronouncing each word separately, "Do not, I repeat, do not, get into any fights. You got that? Just don’t. Do everything you can to stay out of trouble.
"You may be a pretty strong guy, you might know how to take care of yourself in a scrap, but remember, no matter how strong a man may be, no matter how good a scrapper, there's always someone who's just a little stronger, someone who knows how to fight just a little better," he told us, "But that's not the point. The thing of it is: you boys are the strangers, the outsiders, here in Savannah.
You don't belong here. I don't belong here. The local boys live here. It's their town. And you can't fight a whole town. Nobody can, no matter how much of a man you think you are. Or at least you can't fight a whole town and win, or even get away in one piece. Besides, the local police are not exactly going to take your side over the local boys'."
Then he stopped talking for a minute and looked around the compartment to see if we were paying attention, and if he was making an impression on us. Then he continued.
"Some guy makes a crack in a bar," he said, "about you, about the Navy, about Northerners, whatever... Forget it. Ignore him.Don't even answer him. I know it's hard, but remember, you're never gonna see that guy again. You don't live here. But he does.So, what happens here is more important to him than to you, because all his buddies, his neighbors, will remember what happened.
"And if the local boy gets into a fight, he knows he better look good. But besides that, you get into a scrap with him, his buddies are gonna be there, and they're gonna be all over you. And they're gonna win. Believe me.It's their town and there's more of them than there are of you and your buddies. So just take it easy and turn the other cheek, like it says in the Good Book."
When he said this, the Chief’s eyes rolled upwards, and his facial muscles slackened, producing the appearance of a sainted martyr in a Sixteenth-Century oil painting. For a brief moment, he looked like a holy man. This look on him was incongruous, with his big beer belly sticking out, the mug of coffee always in his hand, scratching his scrotum, always going around cursing and using foul language. But that look of holiness lasted only a couple of seconds.
Then the Chief changed the subject. "Now, a lot of you Northern boys aren't going to understand this," the Chief said, "but like I said, it's their town and we've got to play along with local customs. When you go ashore, you white boys stay downtown or in the white sections of town. Don't worry, you'll know which is which. When you see mostly white faces, that's the white section. When you see all black faces, that's the Negro section. Understand?"
The Chief scanned the compartment to see if we could comprehend that complicated concept. I looked over at John, and he looked back at me at the same time and nodded his head as if to say, see what I mean?
Then the Chief continued, "And the colored section is a hell of a lot poorer and more broken down than the white section. You'll know, don't worry about it. And you colored boys, you're best off going straight over to the colored section of town. That way you'll keep out of trouble. Down here they believe that each race should keep to itself. And it's not just the whites. The Negroes down here see a white boy in their territory, they're gonna wonder what the hell he's up to there, and he might get hurt. So, let's just play by the rules and stay out of trouble and have a good time."
Savannah looked good, especially after our having been at sea in a storm. Around the center of town there were white wooden buildings --churches, banks with fluted pillars at the entrance-- besides the usual two-story red brick buildings with stores and bars at street level. There were pretty little parks scattered throughout the city, with grass, winding paths and benches, semi-tropical plants and flowers, fountains...And a lot of beautiful blue-eyed blonde girls...
But there was this smell, this unbelievable, heavy stench that hung over the whole city. It felt like it was clinging to my uniform and seeping into my pores. The locals didn't seem to notice it, but I found it hard to breathe. It smelled as if we were in a latrine or as though there were thousands of month-old corpses stacked somewhere. Someone said it was the paper mills. I suppose that was it. But the whole city, pretty as it looked, smelled rotten. To put it bluntly: it stank.
I hiked out to Victory Drive with some of my shipmates. It was a beautiful road lined with palmettoes, trees thick with Spanish Moss trailing from the branches, and sizeable mansions surrounded by acres of land with trees and well-designed landscaping. After trudging along the road for what seemed like an hour, we put in at this steak house someone had told us about. I thought about how just the day before I had been seasick, too sick even to look at a saltine cracker, and now here I was, ready for a steak dinner.
My shipmates and I were seated at a table in a small restaurant, quaffing our beer, awaiting our food, and listening to Mitch Miller's arrangement of "The Yellow Rose of Texas" on the juke box. And the waitress had taken our orders by asking, "What y'all goin' have, honey?" in that nice, cheerful, sweet tone of voice. Back in New Jersey, they'd have said something like, "Yeah, what's it gonna be?" in an annoyed, tired-of-it-all way. Well, maybe I'm generalizing too much. When the waitress brought our orders, I enjoyed a big, thick, juicy steak with mushrooms, French fries, and black eyed peas. The food was delicious, especially after having been seasick, the waitress was attractive, the Ames Brothers’ rendition of “My Bonnie Lassie” was blasting from the juke box, and I was feeling great, really great. But at one point I wondered how John, my fellow Reservist, was doing.
Later a shipmate and I were downtown, walking along the main drag, past a five-and-dime store. We needed directions to the U.S.O. where there was supposed to be free doughnuts and coffee, not to mention there would be local girls who would act as hostesses for men in the Armed Forces. We stopped on the sidewalk and asked a local man where the U.S.O. was. He started to tell us, pointing out the direction, looking a little nervous. I wondered why. I soon found out.
The man’s instructions were interrupted by a voice bellowing Hey! at us. We turned toward the direction from which the stentorian voice proceeded. A policeman out in the middle of the street, hands on hips and glaring at us was the source of the interruption. The man from whom we had asked directions. --he was an African-American about fifty years old—suddenly seemed worried. I could see his brow wrinkle and glisten with beads of perspiration. When we looked at the police officer, he pointed to the spot on which he was standing, and said, “Hey, you boys…! Come on down here!”
My shipmate and I were puzzled. Had we unwittingly broken some law? The three of us stepped down a steep curb and walked over to him right in the middle of the street where he was directing traffic.When we did so, he jutted his head forward, squinted, and yelled, "Just what the hell you boys think y'all doin' there?" His body language, his tone of voice, seemed to indicate that we had performed some kind of heinous act.
"We were just asking for directions," I said.
"Directions...?" he said, in a tone that conveyed doubt, suspicion.He cocked his head to one side and frowned. "Yeah, I'll bet... Where the hell to?"
"To the U.S.O.," I told him.
He narrowed his eyes and drawled slowly, oozing sarcsam, "The U.S.O....? Sure, you were... Well…"Then he turned to the black man and said, as though he were talking to a dog, "Okay. You, boy... Get a move on. Get outa here. Go on!Get goin’ Git!!"
The black man stalked away without a word, in a hurry to get away from there, looking worried and angry. His jaw was clenched as though he was controlling himself.
Then the traffic cop said to my shipmate and me, "Y'all tryin' to tell me you was askin' that there colored boy for the U.S.O.?"
We nodded our heads. He said, "More likely y'all was askin’ him for the way to some whorehouse in the colored section, now weren't you?"
Well, I don't know what business it was of his, but we told him again we were just looking for the U.S.O., and he sort of studied our faces and finally said, "Well, okay. But what the hell y'all got to ask a colored boy for directions for, then?Next time, you don't talk to no Nigras if that's all you want. Ask a po-lice officer; that's what we're here for. Or ask any regular fella."
By "regular fella" I guessed he meant a Caucasian. Then he looked at us to see if the message was getting through, and said, "Okay, y'all can go now."
We finally got to the U.S.O. and really had a very pleasant time. There were coffee and doughnuts. The girls were pretty and friendly, and had those sweet-sounding southern accents, calling you honey when they talked to you, and stretching the words out to a couple more syllables than they really had.They were really nice to us, but they weren't allowed to make dates with us. They could only be with us right there, while they were on duty.
What struck me about the place was this: the second floor of the building was for the white boys and the ground floor for the black boys. Actually, it was below ground floor; they had to walk down a few steps into the basement. There was a big hand-lettered cardboard sign over the stairway leading down that said COLORED. A sign pointing to the short flight of stairs leading up to the main floor read WHITE.
I couldn’t help but notice there were Puerto Rican and Mexican-American servicemen, some of them pretty dark, and there were some Asian guys, some of them Filipino, which is pretty dark too, and these men were up in the so-called “white” section. In fact, everyone who wasn't considered "Negro" was up in the white section.What struck me as ironic was that there were some so-called Negroes down in the "colored" section who were lighter than some of the servicemen up in the white section. Not that it mattered to me, but it struck me as odd.
There were two white-haired women with stern looks on their faces who were supervising. They stood between the front door and the two staircases ensuring the men proceeded in the right direction. These ladies sometimes had to make the decision on who was white or black. I felt like l was in another world. It was disturbing.
The next morning, I was back on the patrol craft, polishing the brass. John came up to me and asked if I had a good time in Savannah. I told him I did and asked him about his experience. He said a family in the “colored” section invited him in for dinner. He really enjoyed himself with that family.
As he was telling me all this, the sun was shining and felt good on my shoulders. But I had an uncomfortable feeling about the experience I had with racism and segregation in the Deep South of the 1950s.
It made me think of that storm at sea. You might not notice it in the distance or recognize it for what it is, but you’re right on course to enter it and experience it.
Whenever I think of beautiful Savannah, I can’t help remembering the bad smell and automatically connect it with the storm.
END
About The Author:
Clark Zlotchew belongs to a marginalized fringe group who are sometimes referred to as “old codgers.” Born in 1932 (yes, really), he is the kind of person no one sees as he passes them in the street. He has had published two Espionage/thriller novels and three collections of his short stories, one of which was an award-winner (Once Upon a Decade: Tales of the Fifties).
He has also had a poetry collection published. Newer work of his has appeared in Crossways Literary Magazine, Baily’s Beads, The Fictional Café and many other literary journals in the U.S., Australia, U.K., Germany, South Africa, Sweden, Nigeria, India, and Ireland from 2016 through 2023. Earlier fiction of his has appeared in his Spanish versions in Spain, three Latin American countries and the state of Colorado.
He and his wife live in rural Western New York State in grape country. Dr. Zlotchew is SUNY Distinguished Teaching Professor of Spanish. Emeritus at SUNY Fredonia. His experience at sea is reflected in much of his fiction.
Comments