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Posts tagged ‘Father’

StoryCorps: Dad and the UGA Race Riots 1961

Because I received several requests, I have included the excerpt of Dad’s StoryCorps interview on his role in the race riots at the University of Georgia in 1961.

For readers unfamiliar with that part of American history, I will give a brief synopsis.

Much of the Southern United States was racially segregated until around 1960. Where I live in Charleston, one can still see remnants of the segregated era, from a separate ‘colored’ entrance on an old theater downtown, to a wall that divided waiting rooms at the train station. We don’t use these things anymore, but the layer is there.

The Federal government forced desegregation in the South in the early 1960′s. Southern universities, which had historically been all white, were required to admit people of color for the first time, and many of the other separate barriers mentioned above were abolished. In the South, it was not a popular position, and it led to unrest, like the riot at the University of Georgia, in which my father played a key heroic role.

His story is about six minutes long. Set it to play and listen while you do something else at your desk. It always gives me chills to hear him tell it, and I’m very proud of him for standing up and taking what was, at the time, a very unpopular position.

Click here for Dad’s story about the UGA race riots.

StoryCorps Roy

Throughout history, people have used all kinds of aids for stage fright. Booze. Drugs. Meditation and mind control. Being forced out into the open at gun point.

Instead, we had Starbucks when we arrived for our StoryCorps recording. Virgin Starbucks. Shirley Temple Starbucks. And wooden Dad, who eyed the pythonic gadgetry in the Airstream like it might slither around his body and squeeze him to death.

We had one mission: to tell the story of Dad’s role in saving Charlayne Hunter-Gault, the first African-American woman admitted to the University of Georgia, during the race riots at UGA in 1961. But, that story could not possibly fill thirty minutes, particularly when Dad eyed the bulb of mic like it might bite him and refused to talk unprompted.

Thankfully, Dad kept his mostly empty Starbucks to-go cup. A tall coffee. Decaf. Black. As he slid it around the table top, it worked a miracle and somehow transfered its kinetic energy into Roy.

By the time we got to the UGA story, he was in full Regaling Roy Mode. He even went off on a sidebar, and that’s the piece I’ve embedded in this post. Perhaps some of you regular readers will recognize this story from a tale of fiction I wrote a couple of weeks ago.

About an undertaker.

Click to hear Roy Watkins’ StoryCorps Story

The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree

Dad has two retirement hobbies, both of which are work. 1. He refinishes antiques and foists them on people; and 2. He works for a funeral home.

Actually, he just quit the funeral home. For the second time. I’m convinced he’ll go back, but I don’t want to think about that right now.

On our trip to Tennessee, he told me stories about undertakers. About funeral homes. About dead people.

We were sitting in the living room of some people he knew from eons ago and hadn’t seen in decades. He just drove up to their house in the dark and knocked on the door and said, “Here I am!! Huh!!”

And, he whipped out this story about death and dying.

I’m not going to tell Dad’s story for Halloween. Not exactly.

But, in the coming days, I am going to put my own riff on it. Because, you know me.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Paying For It

Tomi Jean Cleveland is a regular reader of this blog. I’ve known her since kindergarten. She has the dubious fortune of living in the same town as my father. Yesterday, she sent me this transcript of an encounter with Roy.

Lest my Dear Readers think I make this stuff up…………In Tomi Jean’s own words, I bring you Roy. At the Starbucks. In Florence, South Carolina.

Mr. Roy: Hey, come ere, I gotta talk to ya!

Me: Oh, Hi Mr. Watkins, how are you?

Mr. Roy: Good! You know Andra and her husband, uh, they took me up to TN for my reunion. Yep, I paid all the expenses! We had fun!

Me: I know, I read all about your adventure in Andra’s blog! Sounds like you all had a wonderful time!

Mr. Roy: yea, yea, she wrote about that in her blog?

me: Yes! I loved reading all about it!

Mr. Roy: yep, I paid for the trip and we went up to Lookout Mountain and rode the incline. You ever done that?

me: No sir, can’t say I have, but it sounds like fun! Sorry your wife couldn’t make it.

Mr. Roy: No, no, she don’t like to go to that kinda thing, but had a good time. You know, Andra and her husband, they’re already gone to Colorado!

Me: Well, I know she is enjoying wherever she is! I have to go meet my friends but it was good to see you!

Mr. Roy: yea, okay….how’s that Kellie Rasberry doin? (Tomi Jean and Kellie have been BFF’s since elementary school.)

Me: She’s great, loving TX! I’ll see ya later!

Mr. Roy: ok, bye!

Approximately 30 mins later:

Mr. Roy: Hello Girls! I think I met yall last time! Aren’t you the one who went to UGA?

Michele: Yes, yes I am. How are you?

Mr. Roy: Fine, fine. I was telling her (Pointing to me), my daughter and her husband took me to TN last week for my reunion. They took me and I paid for everything! We went on the incline at Lookout Mtn. You girls ever done that?

Michele and Staci: No, we haven’t.

Mr. Roy: Huh? You haven’t? Andra said it was like breathing the clouds, you know. It was fun!

After about 20 more minutes of talking about the SC vs. GA game, we had to leave. I felt bad telling him we had to go, he was so entertaining! He is a funny man and I love to talk to him! My friends think he is a hoot!

I think Dad is a hoot, too. He goes to the Starbucks in Florence every day, because they give him coffee for fifty cents, and he can run into people like Tomi Jean. Thanks to her for giving both MTM and me a tears-streaming-down-our-faces laugh.

I’ll Stand By You

We all want our parents to live forever. Of all the people in the world to beat the odds stacked against him, I have always believed my dad would win. Always.

I know he won’t. Those odds are impossible. Still, it is the one shred of little-girl fantasy to which I cling. That my father will always be there. Saying outrageous things. Forcing me to shout to be heard. Telling his crazy stories, tales that fuel my own writing almost every day.

My father isn’t very secure. In fact, his constant refrain when I was growing up was, “You don’t love me no more, do you, Andra?” Even recent readers of this blog will divine that my father is a big personality. Used to adoration. Children don’t always know how to process that information when they’re young.

Few will doubt that I know what to do with it now.

I wish.

I wish my dad could live forever. That he might be around as long as I am, in all his glory. Able to say and do maddening things that, in the end, mean he is still with me.

An empty wish. I know.

So.

I will leave you with a story, as only Dad can tell it. One I never heard before last weekend.

There was this truck. The driver decided to go across that metal bridge. The one across the Hiwassee. Upriver from my Dad’s farm.

That truck hit that bridge, and it fell. Dropped that truck and its load of oranges into the middle of that river. I don’t even know how many oranges there was.

Well, it was January. That water was cold. 

My Dad and I. We took a barge out into the river, and we loaded up as many oranges as we could gather. For weeks, we was finding oranges. Good and sweet. That cold water kept ‘em whole for us.

I’ll never forget those oranges.

I’ll never forget your oranges, Dad. I love you.

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