First Lieutenant Vernon Joseph Baker reminded me about my Dad. My Dad drove trucks in Europe in WWII because of a mangled hand; He could not use a rifle.
I’m white.
My Dad loved Beer, just loved it. When I was 4 foot tall I knew this. Get between my Dad and his Beer; you get Darth Vader on a bad day.
My Dad used the N-word. In my memory, from 1960, it wasn’t a bad word. It meant; a Negro.
My Dad taught me that there were good N’s and bad N’s; just like everybody else.
The guys that rode the back of the garbage truck that picked up trash in our ally were N’s.
My Dad would have these guys in to his garage; at lunch time. To be out of the sun and he would give them a Beer. Beer, Gods gift to man. They were good.
hard men working; just like my Dad. He respected that, I could tell. He gave them Beer, everyday. Beer, blood, beer!
One summer, we broke up a concrete patio. Put all the chunks out in the ally. You’re not supposed to do that.
Dad’s N buddies just started loading it like it was trash. They were not supposed to do that.
As they were driving off, my Dad gave both N’s $10; in 1960?
Corruption, yes, racism, no.
My Dad will be first in line in Club Heaven to buy First Lieutenant Vernon Joseph Baker a Beer!
CONTEXT
Context?
Absolutely.
My Dad also taught me about good ones and bad ones. He was born in Mississippi, did 20 years in the Air Force, and retired in Alabama; without a prejudiced bone in his body.
He looked who you were, what you did, and not the color of your skin.