July 9, 2013
We are Paula Deen
This was published in American Thinker but is no longer in the archives.
" We were the newSouth, the new generation. We believed in Kennedy and Martin Luther King and science. We were going to the moon, end racism, and switch to the metric system."
I am from the South. I was reared in a small southern town. Paula and I are a year apart. As I look at my Facebook page, I see you guys from my high school. Liberal schoolteachers, liberal Cosmo reading sophisticates, state workers, hippies who never sold out, law enforcement officers, elected officials, and corporate executives. Once we shared space and lives in a small southern town. Each one of you should be thankful that you never reached Paula Deen's celebrity status. If you had, today you would be in the midst of a crap storm from hell.
We were the thirty kids in the college prep class. We were the new South, the new generation. We believed in Kennedy and Martin Luther King and science. We were going to the moon, end racism, and switch to the metric system.
And yes we used the n-word, all of us. Each one of us, don’t deny it. I was there. Most of us came to hate all it stood for. The word became so toxic that it ended the careers of celebrities and politicians.
In our town the n-word was used: not as often as many of you imagine but it was used. We didn't coin the word. We didn't invent bigotry or racism. We simply were reared in a small southern town.
Though the term was used, it did not apply to every African-American or Negro in the day. It was used like "trailer trash" or “white trash” is used today to describe certain poor Southerners who couldn’t or wouldn’t hold a job. Back then drunkenness and drug addictions were considered moral failings.
Many of you will be horrified to learn that my family had a housekeeper. Her name was Auntie Mae. We loved her. Long after she left our employ, we would send her money so she could go on trips with her church or get her a space heater. We would occasionally stop by to visit. We would drop off fruit and canned goods.
My dad had an assistant named Buster. We worked together holding hogs for my dad to vaccinate and sometimes castrate. He was a large animal veterinarian simply known as “Doc”. Sometimes he would vaccinate 600 hogs in one day at the stockyard. A milestone to my manhood was when I matched Buster hog for hog.
My dad helped Buster get a job with the police department as the first African American cop in our small town. One night, at Dot's Grill, I stood with Buster as he faced down Clyde Register, a notorious fighter, bully, and big time racist bigot. I was 17. Behind him stood several guys from the Purina Plant as he was cussing Buster with the n-word, threatening to take his gun and shove it up his @**. I stood just behind Buster. I said, "Leave him alone, Clyde. He's OK."
Clyde said, "Who the f***k are you?” (“F**k” was much nastier then.)
I started to give my name.
One of the men behind him spoke up, “He’s Doc’s boy.”
He sized up my 6’5” starting right-tackle-for-the-Bulldogs frame. Grunted, and then went back to cussing. Buster showed remarkable restraint as he kept his weapon holstered beneath his quivering hand. We stood our ground. Clyde finally backed off and left.
I gave Buster a slap on the back, "Way to go, Buster!" He gave me a sheepish grin. Got in his patrol car and left.
Clyde was killed in a fight at Willie's pool hall. Cue chalk hung on a string to be shared by two tables. Ray had his hand on the chalk as he watched Boyd shoot. Clyde touched Ray's hand with a lit end of his cigarette to remind him not to Bogart the chalk. Ray had a knife. Buster and I had a bro moment.
In my senior year my high school was integrated. We were to be the first class to graduate an African-American (Negro was acceptable then). There was a group trying to stir up trouble. There was a plan to start a fight in the hallway between classes. I was to fight a fellow athlete. I never agreed to it. Unexpectedly the pushing started; someone shoved me into ML. They were trying to make it happen. We both said excuse me and gripped hands with the new bro style hand shake. ML went on to play basketball for the Celtics.
My college was integrated. My roommate, John, and I spent a lot of time in Inman and James's room. We discussed racial issues night after night. It was amazing to learn that they thought that their African culture was superior to ours. I mean come on; we established the greatest nation on earth! I learned that my "we" didn't include them.
An African from what was then Rhodesia would stop by the room occasionally. His name was Wisdom Mgumbe, "Wiz" for short. He was famous for his ability to drink huge amounts of alcoholic beverages – especially gin. He never said much. He just watched us as if we were from another planet.
We discussed the n-word. We talked about Lenny Bruce. A comedian who influenced Mel Brooks, Bob Dylan, George Carlin, Red Fox, Richard Pryor and many others. He was the first to introduce social issues into comic shtick. He had a monologue in which he used n-word repeatedly. He argued that the best way to deal with this word was to use it until it became meaningless. James and Inman thought this was a bad idea. They were right.
We used to dance in their dorm room. This was not a gay thing - not that there is anything wrong with that. But Inman loved to dance. He would start. The rest of us would try to match his moves. John and I were freshman. Inman was a senior philosophy major with the requisite goatee, wire frame glasses, and pipe. It was hilarious to watch him dance.
One night we went to a James Brown concert in a tobacco warehouse. The stage was a loading dock. It was a hot summer night. The place smelled of tobacco, dust, and sweat. James sang, “Baby, Please Don’t Go”. It was the most moving performance experience of my life. Joplin, Jimi, and Mick eat your hearts out.
We became hippies – well some of us. We attended “be ins”. We were solid with the brothers. The musical “Hair” was a sensation. The song “Black Spade” included 25 derogatory references to African-Americans including the n-word. The song mocked the words. We were putting the bitterness behind us – so we thought.
Paula Deen has compelling personal story. In 1989, she was divorced with two children and had $200 to her name. She started out selling sandwiches to workers and rolled it into a great American success story.
I saw her and her boys at Uncle Bubba's once. Escorting her was a large African-American man. She was introducing him around like he was family. He was her personal assistant. That's as close as I have come to a B team celebrity.
Paula was at a deposition. She was asked if she had ever used the n-word. What was her attorney thinking? Why would he let her answer that question? What does that have to do with anything? Most everyone in the U.S. and the English speaking world has used it at one time or another.
If you know what I mean when I refer to "n-word", How do you know what it is... Maybe you heard from Richard Pryor on his album: That N-word is Crazy! Or on any number of Chris Rock sketches or Hip Hop lyrics.
Paula answered honestly. There was a bank robbery - a man with a gun - The n-word was spoken.
America gasped! How could she? There was no man-with-a-gun-years-ago exception. She immediately became an outcast. Her cooking show was cancelled. Wal-Mart dropped her. Her pots and pans were marked for clearance. She was skewered on late night TV. Rainbow PUSH is in Savannah investigating her restaurant, “Lady and Sons” and her brother’s place, “Uncle Bubba’s”.
The crap storm from hell has arrived.
This could have been any of us.
I once worked for the federal government. If I had been asked that question, I would have answered a resounding, "No! Nada! Never!"
To rephrase the final line of Kipling's Gunga Din:
“By the livin' Gawd that made you, you're a better man than I, Paula Deen!”
