Paris in May. D. Grey
take time. It would take generations to outgrow. In the meantime, widespread impotence caused by social and economic injustices formed the cognitive maps that delineated and limited physical and aspirational boundaries beyond which one simply did not go.
Yet all around them was a world of plenty. No one had to look far to find it. Those with radios or televisions had it streamed into their understanding of what the world was really like outside of their narrow slice of reality. There were the laws that stopped blacks from participating in the so-called American dream. There were the false beliefs held by whites, insisting that blacks did not have the brain power or work ethic to do the jobs necessary to transform their lives. People felt trapped but continued to work hard to provide for their families. Many looked for help from above and found relief in the church, even though a worldly change in circumstances was not offered by the church. Some in the throes of this degrading reality vented the constantly accumulating frustration by not wanting to be black. Mimicking the poison that whites had injected into their veins by treating other blacks as the white man treated them was pervasive. It made them feel better calling another black a nigger or by copying the white man’s assessment of blacks by parroting that attitude in sayings like, “If you’re black, stay back; if you’re brown, stick around; if you’re light, you’re all right.”
David’s father, John Walton, was a man born of this history. A man who dragged it into his understanding of the world, and even though time might have given him a multitude of possible destinies, he died with a single identity carved from a past that, from his understanding, had not and would not change. The unconscious need to hide from life was his everyday reality. The mundane habits of a subsistence life melded into a long junk heap of days indistinguishable from one another. It did not have to be that way. He was aware of paths other than the one he was forced to take. But given his personal experience, he was not among the few who could avail themselves of opportunities that would make him slightly acceptable beyond the boundaries of blackness. Those doors were never open to him. The path he took required little, only a bit of luck. Unfortunately, he was not gifted with the kind of knowledge that would transform him into a person who might change the outcome of his life. After his move from the south, he tried. As a young man, he tried. For a few years, he was a fix-it man for a bus company. At his wife’s behest, whenever he was paid, he would always stop by a used bookstore, but he only bought picture books so he might see how the world looked. Unfortunately, the job only lasted a few years before the company went out of business. After that, his only hope was standing on the corner with other men, praying that someone needing a day laborer or semiskilled person would give them work. A person who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the rates being charged by white tradesmen could get the same work done for less than half the cost. Since blacks were not allowed in any of the trade unions, men with real skills could be hired as a helper by a plumber or carpenter. The tradesmen would pay his helper much less than the boss was paid but the help would never be allowed into the union or get union wages. The helper could make enough to pay rent and feed and clothe a few mouths. Both women and men had people they worked for on a regular basis. Cleaning house, cooking, taking care of kids, or handling the physical upkeep of the house and garden were some of the jobs that kept the black community going. In any household, you might hear, “I got Miss Jane on Tuesday and Miss Talbert on Thursday,” or “On Monday and Wednesday, I got to oil the floor and clean the shelves at Mr. Mac’s grocery store,” and most of it was paid under the table. These hardworking men and women became grateful to Miss Ann or Mr. Charley for allowing them the opportunity to help feed their families. These attachments became so strong they often felt familial.
For David’s father, John Walton, luck did not come easily. For him, like others, it was a day-to-day effort. Getting up and searching for a job that might never come, and when it came, it was always something like sweeping the streets or sweeping out stores or digging ditches or doing a multitude of menial jobs that he knew were far below his mental ability. As time passed, nothing much changed. He had to grovel and often demean himself for the same menial jobs. When his wife died in childbirth and he decided to raise his only son, he tried, but nothing changed. Through all of his unsuccessful trials, he had become helpless. He believed nothing he could do would make a difference. In a word, John Walton became pathologically and chronically depressed. For him, the future was fixed by the past, and his behavior would not make any appreciable difference in his tomorrow. So he chose a behavioral repertoire that set him on the road to smallness and perdition, one that constricted life and made it anything but bearable. The darkness of his myopic character was set early, and it never changed. All that he could depend on was a monthly check from the welfare department, periodic visits from a social worker, and despite everything he wasn’t, a son who loved him.
It was a social worker who first suggested to John Walton that he might need a medical and psychological evaluation. If it was determined that he was a candidate for medication, he might be eligible for a free monthly supply. Trusting in the education and knowledge base of his caseworker, he agreed to the evaluation. Given his gloomy outlook and dispirited behavior, it was not surprising he was diagnosed and labeled with high blood pressure and clinical depression. He was told that taking the pills would make him do better, or at least feel better. So through state approved channels, the caseworker was able to get a pharmaceutical manufacturer to supply John Walton and others in need with medication for hypertension and depression.
For the first few months, John Walton felt better. There was a noticeable change in the atmosphere of the household. However, before long, he slipped back into a quiet lethargy that seemed to get worse.
In time, his son, David Walton, came to think that maybe his father’s medication might be doing more harm than good. Serendipitously, while reading a magazine in the school library, he read a brief article on the drug Lopresid and its efficacy. It said that the drug may work in the short term, but over time, it might do more harm than good. Upon checking what his father was taking, his worst fears were confirmed: his father was taking Lopresid. When checking with the social worker and with his father’s doctor, neither showed much concern and reassured David the drug was what his father needed. When he sent a letter to the manufacturer, he got nothing back but boilerplate touting the effectiveness of the drug. When he tried to get his father to stop taking the drug, he was unsuccessful. His father believed those in authority were much better able to know what was best for him. After all, the pharmaceutical company had smart people making medicine. His doctor was a smart man who knew about medicine and how it helped people feel better, and the social worker had his best interest in mind. There was no reason not to trust their judgment. However, this did not sit well with David, and his anger was ignited. But in short order, he realized that there was nothing he could do. Eventually the anger subsided, and David came to think maybe his own concern was exaggerated and all he was doing was making a bad situation worse. But even though his concern waned over time, he was nagged by a lingering suspicion.
David understood his father’s psychology but did not accept it as his own. He knew he would not allow himself to be seduced by the demons of the past. Even without assets or support, he had an inchoate optimism driven largely by his sports-oriented community that allowed a way out of the dreary box-like existence that offered little more than a driving need to escape. He had known only the hot, dank, heavy musk of a tiny apartment filled with the smells of fried pork and chicken parts and reused bacon grease that permeated almost everything but made him simpatico with his equally poor friends and playmates. Because of school, he saw the look of neatly frocked, well-groomed classmates and smelled the sweetness of their presentation, so he knew something of another path and wanted it for himself. To discharge himself from the legacy foisted on him by a history of societal sin, few doors were left open except those that led to sports or entertainment. He was aware these were the only gold rings he could grab. Luckily, David was the proverbial jock. He played every sport with grace and high intensity. Football, baseball, and basketball were the sports in which he excelled, and even though he was considered a gifted athlete, his aspirations were unknown, to himself or to his boosters. Years later, he confessed to a friend that he often played sports so he would not have to face going home to his father and the legacy of the oppression that had spawned him. Nonetheless, it was clear to all that his physical gifts were considerable and could take him far.
While taking the bus to the next town in search of a cobbler to repair his worn shoes, David happened