It was late summer, 1979, and my friend Johnny was dying.
Our star fullback in high school, heavyweight wrestling champ, all around BMOC sat, slumped, in a wheelchair in his parent’s Denver living room. His once chiseled, athletic frame was basically down to half of the 215 pounds he burst through opposing defenses with just three autumns before. His purple South High jersey with the white number thirty-three hung loosely over him. He looked more like a man holding a purple tarp.
A virus he had contracted had attacked his heart, and he was awaiting a transplant. He looked old – sounded very old. To my twenty-year old self, the raspy, croaked out whisper was more jarring than the visual. That Johnny Wilkins voice – Barry White-like booming bass, full-throated and billowing in laughter – was unrecognizable; a voice that, added to his physical maturity always made him seem much older than the rest of us, was now the gravely crackle of an old man.
But the perpetual Leprechaun-mischievous glint remained in still vibrant eyes.
It was only when I sat down in front of him and he smiled, his eyes joining his mouth in playfulness as usual, that the Johnny I knew like a brother was again visible. His smile was even more pronounced, as it split the sagging skin of his jowls that had lost their elasticity, into something approaching Johnny normalcy.
I cannot tell you what about in any detail. My travels since we had graduated in the spring of 1977, and update on the whereabouts of some mutual friends. His mind was sharp; whatever medications he was on had not dimmed his intellect or humor. He was still Johnny.
I was one of two classmates who had come to see him since his illness; the other was Terry Tuffield, a kind and beautiful girl who Johnny and I shared a bit of history with. Knowing I had a crush on her, he had begged me to let him set us up on a date, but I had adamantly ordered him not to intervene, preferring to ask her myself and never having to think of her doing him a favor by going out with me. This became a running joke through our senior year and is still one of the more bemusing episodes and fond remembrances’ of high school; especially his insistence in asking me to let him talk to her and my repeated, publicly made threats to kick his butt if he acted on my behalf.
The absurdity of the 145 pound white dude threatening his black, locker-partner Adonis drew more than a few raised eyebrows on many occasions. These exchanges were always punctuated with a stern look from me and a sonic-boom laugh from Johnny.
We were, in almost every aspect of late 1970’s high school life, an odd couple.
The irony of sitting in the Wilkins’ living room, knowing that Terry was the only other visitor from our high school days was not lost on me then or now. That Johnny died less than a month later has always left me thinking that the Rebel visitor list ended with the two of us.
Life is funny like that.
I had been to Johnny’s house once before, in March of our senior year. I picked him up at his house and we went to Denver’s City Park to hang out for the day. We were preparing to graduate and we discussed plans for the future; college football and eventual marriage to his long-time girlfriend Gloria for him, my summer departure for a year of broadcasting school. Our senior prom, various escapades to that point were bantered about while cruising City Park Lake on a rented paddleboat.
One small piece of our conversation stands out to me to this day: Johnny’s casual mention that I was the first white friend that had ever come into his home. It was an observation, nothing more. My response, I believe, was no more than ‘Oh’ and it was left at that. At least until a year later, when Johnny, who had erroneously learned that I was back in town and dropped my parent’s house.
As he later related the story later in a phone call, he walked up, rang the doorbell. The door opened, and there stood my father, middle-aged white guy with glasses, all of five-five, who looked up at the hulking black dude with the bushy beard in front of him and said simply, “Oh, you must be Johnny.” Acknowledging that he was, my father than said, “Well, come on in.”
Johnny roared with laughter recounting the story later, finding my father’s initial statement both jarring and hysterical. His being asked in and hosted by my parents with conversation and lemonade for the next hour was stunning to him. Mine was the first house of a white friend that he had ever been asked into, and I wasn’t even there for the party. Johnny roared with laughter when I explained the obviousness of my father’s initial assumption/greeting: “You are the only big, bearded black guy I know.”
Life is funny.
Our personal string of racial firsts ended with Johnny’s death in August of 1979. He was twenty-one.
I am thirty-five years removed from that Denver living room and this story has come rushing back to me today. At mid-life career change and I am a high school English teacher at an inner city high school in New Orleans. It is my seventh year of teaching here and I have pretty much encountered every issue that traditionally plague poverty-stricken communities.
As I write this, I am sitting in the front seat of a school bus rumbling down a highway in rural Louisiana. I am helping chaperone a group of our seniors on an overnight retreat. There is another teacher on the bus with me, two others follow in a car. Of the forty-two souls on the bus, I am the only white person. I sit with my back against the window, looking over my shoulder at row upon row of young black faces, and I wonder.
I am new to this school. As a first-year guy, I get tested by my students on a regular basis. Most of them have not figured me out yet, especially those I deal with only tangentially. Another teaching newcomer to the school is Mr.K, a history teacher across the hall from me. It is his first year as a teacher and we share most of the same senior students, so we are able to collaborate and share notes on students, and I mentor a bit. We have come to be seen by many students as best of friends, and this idea has been cemented, I believe, by the fact that students constantly, to the shared bemusement of Mr. K and I, confuse the two of us.
Mr. K is tall, thin, bearded and wears glasses; he is half-my age. I am five-five with beard and glasses, old enough to be his father. Yet on nearly a daily basis, I get called Mr.K. and he gets called Mr. Lucker. Usually students correct themselves, and will often apologize – sometimes profusely and with a sense of embarrassment. Mostly not, but sometimes.
The confusion has become a running joke between Mr. K, myself, and a few other staff members – black and white – who don’t find the constant confusion at all odd.
Looking at the young faces behind me, swaying and bouncing up and down as we traverse a curvy two lane highway, I wonder. They are engrossed in every sort of electronic engagement, a few sleep with their heads tilted awkwardly on pillows against bus windows. I wonder if any of them had ever been a racial first for someone, as Johnny and I had been. There are a select few who I believe have contemplated such scenarios as they prepare to head off to college, although most of that is naiveté born of circumstance; outside of school, there are few white people with whom most of my students interact with any sort of regularity. Many of them will go off to college and be stunned with the diversity they encounter.
There are many firsts on their horizons.
Over the past six-plus years, when students have brought up the racial aspects of our teacher-student relationship it is usually brought up with a tone of curiosity rather than accusation. They are trying to figure me, or other white teachers out. At the (much larger) school I taught at the three years prior to this one, black students would occasionally ask me to explain white student behavior in some way, which I would usually try to deflect, and use classroom techniques to get them to do their own analysis of the situation on the premise (and observed belief) that teenagers are generally teenagers
Usually the biggest looks of surprise (and the rare verbal exclamation of surprise) comes when I very purposely counter any talk of stereotyping (‘white people don’t…’ or ‘black people are…’) with something along the lines of “Well, I think most of my black friends would probably disagree with your generalization.”
Even amongst the most stoic, nonchalant of my students, there is almost always a sense of astonishment that I have black friends. I would go so far as to say that the most common reaction to this revelation is incredulity.
I don’t know precisely why this all comes to mind today, during a kidney-busting bus ride through the countryside…then again, maybe I do. At least on some level.
Johnny, I hardly knew ye. But I’m still learning from our much-too-short time on earth together.
Color me contemplative.