English Salesman

1

Dear Martin Draft 2

Matthew W Larrimore

S Allen

English 319 9:00

November 21, 2008

Dear Martin

Dear Martin,

            I am disappointed in my own inability to find you. I would like the chance to speak to you directly. I’m not sure that will ever happen.  There are a lot of things I’d like to ask you about. How are things working out for you? Where did you end up? Do you have a family? Maybe some deeper questions about what you think of the world now.  I’d like the chance to tell you about me too. I’d like to tell you that I’m married and have been for sixteen years, that I’m back in school full time.  I’d like to tell you about my careers in Special Education, Information Technology and Real Estate and to catch you up on my family. Mostly I’d like to tell you that our friendship was and is very important in my life.

Our friendship has taught me a few lessons that I still try to apply in my life. I realize now that we can learn something from everyone and we have to do our best to internalize those lessons while we can. Sometimes we only get a chance to learn those lessons once and unlike my Special Education classrooms. We don’t get the chance to prepare ourselves or go over a task again and again until we have learned what we needed. Had I known then how important our friendship was going to be, I might have done things differently, prepared or paid more attention. During the years we were friends I was a student in the classroom of life and our friendship was a type of teacher I learned from, even if I didn’t clearly see it at the time.

Alright class. Happy Monday! Ok eyes up here please. This morning we’re going to practice buttoning, tying laces and counting money. That’s buttons, laces and money. Jane you have Physical Therapy today. So lots of fun, let’s get ready.

            I would not characterize the Northwood section of Baltimore where we grew up, as the “mean streets of the city;” at least, not in the time when we lived there. Nor was it a pristine playground for a couple of preteens.  As an adult, I now know that the early eighties were a tense political and racial time in Baltimore. It had been nearly fifteen years since the race riots of the late sixties, but some racial tension still affected the adults in our lives. The loss of factory jobs, the flight of whites to the suburbs (which my family later participated in), the oil and gas crises and the election of a president who no one believed was going to see to the needs of cities, all point to a time that was tense for our parents. One of the things I’d like to ask you about is, what was your impression of those times? What was your perspective as a black child growing up in that place and time?  For me, I never felt much of that tension.  I guess my parents protected me from it as much as they could.  I am sure the insulation from that tension was, in part, because of my age, but also because I am white. As a group, we were turning our backs on the problems of the city and moving on. Looking back, it seems that many whites were simply trying to hide from the issues and felt that by leaving the city and blacks behind, they would leave their problems behind. While that may have worked for some, it did not work for all. Many of the same problems of poor schools, drugs and crime followed those families that left the city. Within a few short years those problems began to surface in their new neighborhoods.  

Ok class, good job putting your things away and getting ready. We’re working on buttons first. Velcro is not the solution to everything. We all have to be able to use buttons. Jimmy, come on up to the button board and show us how it’s done.  That’s right, good Jimmy. Everyone, push the button through with one hand and pull it with the other.  Great job Jimmy! Who is next? Everybody is going to get a turn. Everyone needs buttons.

I was not ignorant of the problems at the time, but just never felt like I was affected by them.  I consider myself lucky. My parents raised me without as much as a single comment about race that I can remember. The first time I saw a young black boy (age four or so) I referred to him as “chocolate.” My parents, who attended interracial public high schools during the turbulent sixties, never made any distinctions of race at all. The only exception was when my mother would admonish another adult when their biases became all too evident. It was not until I started moving into those larger social rings of extended family and school, that I knew there were any cultural differences or tensions between blacks and whites.

I believe I was fortunate that I met you not long afterwards. Although I was friendly with most of the kids in our lower middle class parochial school, both black and white, I would have called only one or two of them friends, and they were not black. So it was through you that I learned what blacks, “were like” instead of from the hearsay of family or white friends.

Alright, good job everyone. Now let’s try tying laces. I’m going to show you how first. Cross the laces and tuck one under. Pull them tight. Make a bow. Wrap the other one around. Push it through and pull it tight. Now it’s your turn. Billy, come on up and give it a try. Remember, cross the laces and tuck one under. Pull them tight. Make a bow. Wrap the other one around. Push it through and pull it tight.

Parts of my extended family certainly were pushing intolerance during that time. Some of that has changed, but not all. The first time I heard the word ‘nigger’ it came from my grandfather’s mouth.  We were visiting him and my grandmother, my mother’s parents. I don’t truly remember the context. I am sure, as was usual for him, there was little or no hatred in the word. He was just talking about the new neighbors or someone who had walked down the street.  My grandparents didn’t live too far from Morgan State College, a historically black college. I am certain my mother scolded him at the time. But looking back, the casualness with which that label and all its implied bigotry was applied, is chilling.

My grandfather was certainly not the only one in the family who freely used racial slurs. I had an uncle, second cousin really, who lived with us for a few years. I was sure he was the inspiration for the character of Archie Bunker, a bigoted loud mouth from the television series “All in the Family.” Had it not been for our friendship, Martin, and the school my parents chose to send me to, I am sure I would have learned that assumed, almost natural bigotry that seemed to come so easy to some of the white adults that I knew. 

Bobby, please keep your hands to yourself.  You wouldn’t want Billy grabbing your shirt would you? No. The same goes for interrupting, Billy. It was Bobby’s turn to talk.  We need to listen while it’s his turn right? Because you want people to listen while you’re talking, right? We all need to treat others the way we want to be treated.

I can recall some of the times you and I spent together. We tried to teach each other how to throw a curve ball across several neighbors’ front lawns, played Monopoly and Risk and went swimming in my cousins’ pool. I also remember some more formative moments for me.  I can recall conversations with you that I would find very awkward today. We explored cultural differences. It seems food was a frequent topic of conversation. Even so, I don’t think I tried collard greens and black eyed peas until I was an adult. We frequently talked about girls. I can clearly remember coming to the conclusion that if I were going to date a black girl or you were to date a white girl, she’d have to be hot, “supermodel” hot, and somehow not having a dad would have helped. The more we hung out and the more I learned about you, the more I found myself thinking how alike we were. I also learned that only some of the differences between us could be pinned on race. This realization and the influence that it had on who I was and who I am could not be underestimated.

Later, what I learned helped me to avoid stereotyping people. Once, in an unfamiliar neighborhood a black teenager tried to steal my bicycle. I was riding it at the time. He knocked me off my bike and punched me in the nose. My head hit the asphalt. I was much more upset then hurt. After the incident, I didn’t blame all blacks or make the perpetrator a nameless faceless “black guy,” a generic equivalent for all individuals like himself. I saw it as the malicious act of an individual and not much more. Because it was an individual who attacked me and not the “group”, I avoided falling into the general resentment of a group that so easily leads people down the path to bigotry.  Now as an adult I think I have been able to generalize the lessons of our friendship a bit more. I do my best to see the value of each individual. While I realize there are differences between all individuals, I know that we are also, in many many ways, very similar.

Alright, who can tell me how many pennies in a dollar? That’s right Sue, one hundred. Alright, how many nickels in a dollar? Good Jimmy! Twenty, right. How many dimes? Ten, that’s right. How many quarters? Four, Great!  Ok, one hundred pennies, twenty nickels, ten dimes and four quarters. They’re all what, class?  A DOLLAR! Very good!

Toward what would be the end of our relationship, my family moved.  I remember you visiting. You rode your bike the eight to ten miles over hilly terrain, across what I would have considered seven or eight different neighborhoods. It was far further than I would have considered going as a young teenager.  My mother now tells the story of how a few days after your visit, a neighbor asked about the black boy that had been at our house.  There must have been something unkind in the question. My mother quite seriously told her that you were her son from a previous marriage. I thought that was the funniest thing I had heard in a long time. To get my mother to lie like that, it was incongruent with who she was and is. It was the first time I can remember thinking, that if I wanted to keep you as a friend I might have to make a few adjustments.  Sadly, I was not able to. The distance between us and the lure of new friends (girls too) made that one of the last times I saw you. I think we had two more brief meetings between us and a few phone calls. But you seemed to slip away. I have learned the lesson that it was me who let go. I felt and still feel responsible for our lack of contact. However the lessons that our friendship has taught me have, for the most part, stayed with me. I count myself lucky to have called you friend.

Ok Jane. It’s time for Physical Therapy.  I’ll grab your walker. Can you push yourself over to the door and wait for me? Thank you... Alright Janey, don’t forget, lean on that walker and use your arms. You want to get past Ms Ross’ door, remember? It’s going to be hard work, but you can make it!

I don’t really want to write an ending here Martin. I’m still learning things that our relationship taught me. It’s not always something new I’m learning. Sometimes I forget something our relationship taught me and I have to go back and relearn it. I also don’t want to write an ending because I hope one day, I’ll find you again.  So we can sit down and have this conversation in person. I’m sure there are more than a few new things we can teach each other.

Ok class, get your things together. It’s almost time to go.  Great day everyone! Tomorrow is Tuesday so we have music class!  We’re still practicing tying laces, buttoning and counting money, so lots of fun! Jimmy, it’s your turn for PT tomorrow.

Note to the reader: I have on several occasions attempted to contact “Martin.” Over the years, have been occasions that I really wanted to include him on. I’ve spent more than one Saturday afternoon calling all the appropriate listings in the all four Baltimore area phone books. I have spoken with relatives who also had contact with him. I have conducted searches in other various ways.  All my efforts have come up empty. My parents still live at the same address and have the same phone number that they did after we moved out of the city. He should still have that information. My hope at this point is that he will attempt to contact me.