BEING ALL I COULD BE Part 2

Check out pt. 1 here https://bayemcneil.substack.com/p/being-all-i-could-be-part-1

When I enlisted in the Army, unlike thousands of black men who enlisted in the Army before 1948 (the year the military was finally desegregated thanks an Executive Order from President Truman), I did so with little thought for the next generation or the previous. I did, however, share something with those warriors: a healthy fear of the South.

This was my first time in the South, actually. To me, the South was this mythic place, where unbelievable shit happened. Most of the lynchings that have occurred in the US occurred in the South: Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, Kentucky, Tennessee, Florida, and yes, South Carolina. These were notorious lynching states.

And though I was there well after the days of roving lynch mobs setting fire to to entire black communities, hanging, castrating and burning blacks alive, it was well before James Byrd was beaten and dragged behind a pick-up truck until he basically fell into pieces, by some white supremacists in the south. Texas, to be precise.

In other words, sure there was a legal remedy once the crime was committed, and sure the FBI had the skills and would probably catch the culprits responsible for my lynching, but I'd still be dead as fuck, while some shitkicking racist would wind up a hero in prison or, among their supremacist friends, they'll be martyrs on Death Row, soon to be among the honored dead.

Because of the nature of the US military and its tendency to draw its enlisted numbers from among the disenfranchised, it's usually the youngest, poorest, and least educated men and women that wind up doing all the serving and dying. This is the worst aspect of the Army...and, ironically, the best thing about the Army. The Army was a place where racist notions could best be addressed. The disenfranchised get to live, eat, sleep, shit, shower, laugh, cry, sweat...etc...all together in one big open bay, in my case, presenting incalculable opportunities to find out how much we have in common, if we so choose. We can learn a great deal about one another's thoughts, feelings, and experiences, and, if we're lucky, we can learn a lot about ourselves, too.

I was one of the lucky ones.

Racially, I think the Army was one of the best things that ever happened to me. White people: these mysterious entities that my elementary school had taught and shown me were prone to stand around laughing and pointing at burning black bodies and swinging black corpses; and actually make postcards out of the experience and send them to friends and family far and near, that shoot unarmed black teens down in the streets of Brooklyn, and assassinate black leaders on motel balconies in Memphis...now I was living with them, able to have uncensored and unscripted dialogues with them. And I mean some real rednecks and hicks, farmers and cowboys, white boys who'd never spoken with black people in their entire lives...some who'd never even seen black people except in the movies or on TV. Some of them were the offspring of those lynch mobsters from my mother's generation. I'd gotten a chance to really get to know them, to confront my fear and ignorance, and I was all over it.

Private Frick was my touchstone, in a way. I learned so much hanging out with him, by watching how he interacted with the other white boys in the platoon and with the world. His confidence was intimidating, and his temper was certifiable. But his generosity and openness were off the chart...he'd share his last smoke with me and buy me a carton if I was broke. He'd cover for me when I sneaked out to call my girl back home or even help me get my bunk tight enough to bounce quarters off of. He was an all-around cool ass hick.

One night we were on guard duty and sneaked away to make phone calls. He had called his wife. I was standing lookout, trying not to listen to their conversation. But he was a loud one.

"What you mean you don't wanna talk to no strange niggas...Didn't I just tell you this is my homeboy?! Now talk to his ass!" And he called me over and handed me the phone. "Here! Say hello!"

"Hello," I said, and wound up talking to her for a good 5 minutes. She must've told me her whole life story, talking so fast, accent so strong, I could only catch half of it. Yeah, Frick and I were tight.

One Sunday morning after services the brothers were having a pow-wow...basically sitting around shooting the shit. Burns was there, of course. He wasn't an official leader, like Frick, but he was the acknowledged leader of the black cats, due to his size, his gungho-ness and his aggressive attitude. I usually stayed outta his way and watched my back when he was around. I never trusted him. Maybe cuz he looked like a rabid Pit Bull Terrier. Like Mike Tyson would look if he had never come under the fatherly influence of Cus D'Amato: utterly unhinged.

And by avoiding him I wound up avoiding most of the black guys in the platoon by default. Not that I missed them much. They were an ignorant lot, to tell you the truth. I was sure I lost IQ points and perspective with every conversation.

Pretty soon, this pow-wow got physical and turned into a wrestling competition out in the red clay that was everywhere in Fort Jackson. I'm not really the physical type. More of a thinker, I tell myself, so I just sat on the sidelines making jokes and clever remarks and fucking with people in general. I talk a good game when I want to.

Burns was tossing people left and right, and suddenly called me out. "Hey Loco! Come get your ass busted!" Everybody looked at me... I realized then that I was really afraid of Burns. That I had built him up in my mind as the anti-Loco, as only one can do to oneself. And, I knew, in that moment, that I wasn't about to let that motherfucker get his hands on me.

I'd been watching him with the others, and though he'd been tossing them around he'd also been holding back. But, I knew that I provoked another side of his nature. He would show everyone, once and for all, that not only weren't New Yorkers so fucking tough without their guns and knives and shit, but that fraternizing with hicks like Frick was a no-go, as well. He was gonna put a hurting on me, my intuition told me.

Then, outta nowhere, came Frick.

This wasn't our first pow-wow. This was almost a weekly thing. And, somehow, it had always worked out that the pow-wows were segregated. I don't think anyone planned it that way, and we certainly never verbalized it. It just happened like that, consistently, so that it became like an unsung rule. So, when Frick appeared, a couple of people besides myself recognized the aberration. Burns was one. He looked at Frick, just for a second, like he was uninvited. And, a second was all Frick needed. "What? Is this some 'niggers only' shit, or can a skinny cracker get in on this action?" Everybody laughed ...except Burns. He still wanted a piece of me. Another Private- I forget his name- but he was Burns' boy, shouted out," Burns was about to give Loco some scrapes!"

Frick looked at me...just a quick glance, but I could tell he smelled my apprehension, just as sure as a dog would.

"Sheeeeet," Frick laughed. "I put my money on Burns!" Everybody joined in on the laughter...

Great. I felt like one of those burning black bodies in the photos of lynchings I'd been shown as a child. Just as helpless, just as done for.

"He barely pinned down my little white ass the other night when we was just fucking around," Frick added, looking Burns squarely in the face (Burns was squatting, Frick was standing). "If he can barely handle me, I knows he can't handle a big ass nigger like you!"

I threw on my poker face before anyone could see. Frick had just lied his ass off...for me! I could have kissed President Truman for desegregating the Army right about then. Everyone turned my way, in shock and disbelief, eyes popping, mouths agape. Frick might have been little but they'd seen him out push-up the Drill Sergeant, and they'd seen his perfect Olympian physique in the shower. They knew this little dynamo was about the toughest white boy alive!

Then, everyone looked at Burns. Some of the fire, the eagerness, in his eyes had died out. It wasn't fear that doused it, though. That wasn't what I saw. It was something, though. I think he was impressed.

Part 3 to follow soon!

(This is an excerpt from my first book: "Hi! My Name is Loco and I am a Racist." If you're in Japan and would like to get a signed copy, let me know!)

Also, heads up! Coming this week Friday!