Sidney Poitier and I (and no, I never met him)
There are elements of this blog that may tend to portray me in a less-than-flattering light, but that’s OK (I think). I’ve decided that, nevertheless, it’s a story worth telling. Years ago when I was a teenager — OK, many years ago — my family and I were visiting my father’s relatives in rural west Tennessee. Somehow, Sidney Poitier came up as a topic of conversation. “He’s not a (n-word)” one male relative (not my father) opined. “Why, he’s as black as ...” said the other (also not my father). “But he’s not a (n-word),” responded the first. Translation: The only thing worse than a black man is an uppity black man, one who speaks English better than we do. Now, did I challenge this blatant racism and use of a vile epithet, coming from members of my own extended family? No. I was a teenager taught to respect my elders, was a guest on their turf, and held genuine affection for both men. That said, their bigotry, and my tolerance of it, was as wrong then as now. M...