But they were. My mom's parents. Standing in the schoolhouse door. Segregation now, tomorrow, forever.
My dad says they had a framed picture of Wallace on their mantle.
And he tells this story. He was very involved in Robert Kennedy's campaign in '68. College campus and youth organizer. RFK's assassination was devastating for him. Sometime around June 7th or 8th, he and my mom went to her parents' house for dinner. They ate in the kitchen. Over the kitchen table, there was a vent that poured cold air down onto whoever was seated at that end of the table. The usual practice was to use Scotch tape to cover the vent with a piece of newspaper. That night, with my dad seated at the opposite head of the table, my grandparents had taped up the front page from a couple days before. Robert Kennedy's face--along with the banner headline announcing his death--stared down at my dad throughout the meal. He could barely eat. He swears they did it on purpose.
I remember eating with my mom, my sister, and my grandparents at a now-closed Chili's in the affluent suburb I grew up in. I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7. My grandmother said something to my mom that I either couldn't hear or couldn't comprehend. I asked what she'd said. She glanced at my mom, who looked away. "I just don't like when people mix coffee and tea," she said, looking over my left shoulder. This didn't make any sense to me either. I looked around -- didn't see anyone doing that. I can't remember if my mom explained it to me afterward, or if I just figured it out for myself: my grandmother wasn't talking about mixed hot beverages, but about mixed race couples.
Several years back--I was about 14, I think--I was at my grandparents' apartment, sifting through a bowl of mixed nuts. "I don't like these ones," I remember saying. "What are they called?" "Brazil nuts," my mom said -- quickly, I remember thinking. "We used to call them something you can't say anymore," my grandmother said. My mom sighed. "What?" I asked. My mom shook her head. "Tell me," I said. "We used to call them nigger toes," my grandmother said.
My dad has claimed for as long as I can remember that my grandparents "mellowed" over the years. That they changed. My grandfather started unbuttoning his collar occasionally. Et cetera. My dad claims it was his influence.
Maybe. I think it may just have been time.
This past month, my grandfather turned 95. My grandmother is 85. I got a voicemail from my mom a couple weeks ago. Between telling me about her most recent lunch with my sister, and reminding me to call her more often, she mentioned this: "Your grandparents voted early yesterday. Absentee. For Obama. Both of them."
I was fairly stunned. I hadn't thought to try to persuade them. I realize now that I had, I'm fairly ashamed to say, written off their votes. But my grandparents voted for Barack Obama. A black man. With a white mother and an African father. Who's running against a white war hero. Barack Obama.
I'm not sure why. They know I've been volunteering for the campaign. Maybe they were thinking of my preference when deciding on theirs. But I hope it was more than that. More than resignation. I hope it was progress.
Something's astir in America. Come Wednesday: Now, Tomorrow, and Forever might just have a whole new meaning.
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