You’ve got to be taught/To hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught/From year to year,
It’s got to be drummed/In your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught to be afraid/
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff’rent shade,/
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,/
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!
— “South Pacific”
Rodgers and Hammerstein’s 1949 musical was based on stories about World War II, Tales of the South Pacific, for which James Michener won the Pulitzer Prize. Lieutenant Cable falls in love with a native girl, and the female lead at first turns down her beloved because of his biracial children.
During the controversy about the show, a bill was introduced in one legislature saying that the show was inspired by Moscow. One representative said that the song represented a threat to the American Way. Rodgers and Hammerstein refused to remove the song regardless of possible economic consequences, and “South Pacific” became one of America’s most beloved plays.
During our trip down memory lane, Wanda Frazier Smith, my childhood friend, said about race, “We didn’t worry about that stuff. We were just kids, growing up.” She and I never defined each other by race, and we never discussed it until recently. We’re too old to worry overmuch about what other people think, and we trust one another.
Wanda said. “I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.” Because of the sensitivity of the subject, I sent this to her. She replied, “I think you are right on the money. You have written the real deal for two young innocent girls where it proved we had the right parents whom I think we made proud. How blessed we were.”
However, Knightstown, the North of my internal compass, was no Eden. Social snobbery, exclusiveness, racism and religious prejudice existed. I’ve never forgotten — or forgiven — that on my first day of school first-grade the teacher said, “Now we’re going to pray. All Protestants, bow your heads. No, Rose Mary, don’t bow your head. Catholics don’t bow.” I didn’t understand what Catholics and Protestants were, but I very quickly learned the meaning of bigotry. That woman also seated some little children from poor families at a table by themselves.
Wanda said, “I never felt that anyone in town disliked me because of my race.” I know why that was. There were unwritten codes of civility and kindness in little Knightstown, especially regarding children. Everybody knew Wanda and her parents, and her father, a mail carrier and war veteran, knew every family. Had Wanda and I grown up in Indianapolis, we probably wouldn’t have been neighbors. Even if we had been neighbors, she would have had to attend Crispus Attucks High School for Negroes.
We knew each other’s people: Wanda recalls drinking coffee at old Granny’s house. I remember her grandmother Archey. We knew each other’s cousins and siblings. During World War II, Mrs. Frazier drove one of my sisters to the hospital to have a baby. My nephew, John Jones, says that Lois Frazier’s kitchen was so immaculate that you could eat off the floor. Wanda’s sister, Barbara, was John’s sister Dee’s best friend.
When my parents and I walked to the movies, Wanda waited outside her house and tagged along. My parents sponsored her to become a member of the Catholic Church to which she still belongs. She remembers going fishing with my father at the little lake west of town. “It was a thing of beauty when Mr. Gard cast his bait.” I loved her mother’s luscious chocolate cake. Wanda says, “If my parents couldn’t find me, they figured that I was at your house.” Ditto.
Next week: The Real World wclarke@comcast.net