My Grandfather: Proud to Be a Black Man

The sun began to set below the mountains as we were finishing up the interview with my grandfather. I click the stop button on the voice recorder, “Man, you lived an interesting life. Do you have anything else you will like to add to it?” I said. “No, I think I gave you my whole life story. Do you think it is enough for your paper or whatever you are doing, Junior?” he replies. I shook my head and answer yes forgetting that my grandfather is legally blind in both eyes, a simple yes would have been enough. This was the most my grandfather talked about his past to anyone. He is a quiet man, all he needed was his smoking pipe, newspapers, an outdoor setting, and he would be just fine in this world. When I was a little boy, learning about your parents past would never cross my mind, even less my grandparents. As an adult, this was a chance to learn more about my grandfather, Amos Brown, and the life he lived. Currently, he is living with his daughter in Rancho Cucamonga, California. A far drive from his home in Pasadena, where he was born and raised, the house he laid stone by stone with his bare hands, the house he was forced to leave because of his ailing health, he misses it during long nights in bed. The goal of this interview was to see the world through his eyes and get a sense of what his life was. During the interview, I began to imagine my past and present with his, viewing every major event of his with my own. Is it possible that we have the same experiences, but in different eras? Could his memories of his younger years, time during the great depression, travels through the South as a recruit, witnessing a bloody era of the civil rights movement, and 2008 presidential race mirrors my own?

My grandfather...

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...h. I share my experience of racism with my grandfather while I was at a track meet in Pecos, Texas. I cleared my throat and begin to talk. My team just complete an interstate track meet and from the bleachers you can hear somebody yell, “MUD! MUD!” The team thought somebody last name was Mud, but we were wrong. The chanting changed to “go home jungle bunnies” and “tar babies.” Some of my teammates never been insulted in this matter. We all looked up, flipped him off, and walked to the van. That was my first brush with racism. My grandfather folded his arms and said, “Crazy, I guess things will never change in certain areas, right?” I agreed and chuckled. My grandfather would finish his time in the Army with an honorary discharge. With money in his pockets and time on his hands, he decided to return home, not knowing what history has from him and the world.