Evel Knievel Had No Idea I Was Black

Freshly baked cookies would have been nice but so would acceptance.

I was 11 when I first met my father’s mother. The reason for the late introduction was that her son adopted a Black child. Though I was old enough to have accepted the absence of a grandparent in the previous ten years of my life, I was confused as to the reason why.

I have little memory of her, and those memories that do hang around are superficial at best and stay out of respect for my father.

My family orbit has always been small; no siblings, no grandparents, a couple of cousins that, if asked to provide a facial description to a police sketch artist, I would fail miserably. It was only my parents and me and the memories we created together that shaped my childhood.

Both my parent’s families were rooted in Boston’s dark history, a time when busing and calls for desegregation were in the atmosphere. The Irish, Portuguese, and a few other white communities were the makeup of South Dorchester — a town where diversity had yet to be imagined; in fact, it was strongly resisted. At a time when racial strife was at its zenith, it was unheard of for a white family to adopt a Black child. The reaction by the community would be ugly and fierce, as our family would experience throughout my childhood.

To grandmother’s house, we go

I grew up with little grandparent presence in my life. My mother’s mother died when I was eight so my memories of her are vague and limited. My mother’s father died about 25 years ago and though his acceptance of his Black grandson was certainly more welcoming than those from other family members, I did not see him much — the occasional holiday and drive-by visit.

Though occasionally, I did see my father’s family slightly more often with the exception of his mother who had little interest in accepting the fact that she had a Black grandson. As I’m sure you can imagine this caused a long-lasting rift between her and my father whose relationship, as a result, was strained for many years.

This subconsciously being the reason I never referred to her as my grandmother but as my “father’s mother.”

Post the slight thaw or eventual wearing down (I’m not sure which), I recall one of the first infrequent visits to her house in Dorchester. Perhaps my father thought that this might lead to the beginning of her acceptance of me. Upon arrival, I found myself, with a suspicious gaze, looking at an unwrapped Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle Wind-up toy in the middle of the living room floor. Curious, I circled around the box wondering who it belonged to. My father spoke up and said that his mother had gotten it for me. For what occasion I don’t recall or if she actually bought the toy for me. I’m guessing this was one of those “parent purchase deals.” Either way, I just remember it being in the middle of the floor waiting for me when I arrived.

I provided my thanks then proceeded to put imagination into practice.

I sat on that floor for what seemed like hours trying to break distance records while on one wheel. My mind escaping to another place, far away from where I was. When we got ready to leave I don’t remember taking Evel home with me. My guess is by having it stay at my father’s mother’s house, it would be an excuse for us to visit again. I enjoyed that toy immensely, though the idea of going back and attaining more height above the cliff’s edge did not encourage my enthusiasm enough to warrant a return trip.

The backdrop of being somewhere where I was not wanted, did support my reluctance to visit but was only an amuse-bouche to an overall less than ideal experience.

Save your money, I have my own

Upon entry to her home, visitors were greeted by a small bookcase against the left wall. On it, were cast iron figurines and banks depicting racist Black stereotypes. All with their own levers and buttons to launch coins into exaggerated stereotypical facial features of Black people. In full display adorned with names for all to see: Jolly N****r, Aunt Jemima, Black Sambo, Mammy, etc. Later, as an adult, I learned that these racist objects were given by banks to preferred customers as rewards for customer loyalty.

Although I went to this house infrequently, no matter how much I tried to keep my thoughts from zeroing in on what I would see when I first walked through the door, the reality was I had to pass these racist reminders every time.

For a time, I must admit I was intrigued by these disgraceful examples of Americana so brazenly displayed for visitors to view and perhaps inquire about. The impact on a young Black kid seeing them was complicated. Supposedly I was in a safe place with my father yet in an environment where I was not welcomed for years. For me, the visits were transactional — business. I was there as an extension of my father, not as an individual, and at that time that was okay by me.

After the passing of my father’s mother, those banks became the center of a rather mild tug of war among a few relatives trying to stake a claim. Clearly, they knew of the value of these abominations and perhaps wanted to cash in on them at a later date. All I knew was that I never felt right whenever I would see them and was confused as to why anyone would want these objects of racism, especially those few relatives who seemed to embrace me at the time.

I’m not sure when the epiphany came (if it did) or who led the charge for allowing me to step through the front door of that house for the first time. I suspect it was my father in an effort to provide me with a wider circle of “family.” In the end, it doesn’t matter, but by that time having experienced enough discrimination, and ostracism at that young age, this was just another reminder of not being wanted because of who I was.

Driving Miss Daisy

Years later at a family function, my father asked me if I would drive his mother home as he wanted to stay and socialize a bit longer. It should come as no surprise that I was less than enthused about this but of course, I obliged as a favor to him. The silence on the ride to her house was deafening. Trying to engage with an 80+-year-old white woman who for years had no interest in meeting me was uncomfortable beyond comprehension.

Remember the mission I thought, remember the mission.

Regardless of how uncomfortable I felt, I leaned into the ceremony once we arrived. I opened the car door, helped her out, walked her to the front door, and got her mail. I even guided her toward her “sleeping chair,” right past those racist cast iron banks on the bookcase. Sounds like a twisted slave-era tale told to a future generation of social historian doubters.

By this time Evel was no longer in the picture but my Blackness was and so were my thoughts of not wanting to stay any longer than I had to.

My grandchild time with my father’s mother was scarce over the years — a holiday here, an “on the way home” visit there. My exposure to this branch of his family was kept at a certain distance never taking substantial root in my childhood memory.

Though I was older that day I drove her home, once I closed the front door I immediately formed a brief picture of Evel and me jumping “over the books” while my father’s mother sat in her chair not watching.

A different time in space

The racist sentiment in Boston in the ’60s and ’70s was pervasive. It affected everyone and everything; especially those communities that dare live in a white space. You would think once the trek up north was made, hateful aggression would stay, darkening the doorsteps of the unlucky left behind. Nope, it followed, and so did more experiences of being shunned by a new community that would rather you disappear into the darkness.

Looking back at my early years, I do not harbor any anger especially for those who never got to know me. Along the way, you have to remind yourself of your determination to write your own story knowing you might not have a community behind you for support.

I never had fond memories of going to a grandparent’s home, having them gift me change from an extended hand, offering words of wisdom, or seeing fresh baked cookies sitting on the table awaiting my arrival. Perhaps these are Norman Rockwell’s memories but for others, these visuals of long ago for many reasons did not exist.

The true definition of family is those who embrace you and provide a place for you in their hearts, who support and protect you. Memories are fleeting but constant love and acceptance are eternal — a currency not all of us are rich in.

Thank you for reading!

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