30-Some Years and Counting

I remember you.

I don't remember your names or your faces or what assorted small Iowa towns you came from.

I was probably the only black person you'd ever met in person. You probably never knew a black person. I definitely didn't act or talk like the black people you'd probably seen on tv. The fact I didn't talk or act "Black" was something I heard a lot, especially in my teen years. You probably had no clue how to react to me.

I heard you that night in our cabin at the retreat center. It was late, lights were out, you weren't ready to sleep and you started telling jokes to pass time. Maybe you thought I was asleep.

I wasn't.

I heard every joke. Every word. Every use of the word "nigger".

I remember how easily and gleefully it came from your mouths, how easily nigger joke after nigger joke came from your seemingly endless stores of comedy black gold. I heard the reason we have sex on our minds all the time is because of the pubic hair growing from our heads. I heard about the truck with the shipment of bowling balls that picked up a hitchhiker and how the state trooper was dismayed when he discovered one of the nigger eggs had hatched. I don't remember all the other jokes, but I remember I dared not move, I dared not speak, I dared not give away that I was awake, and I definitely dared not fall asleep until after you did.

I may have told one counselor the next day, or I may have told one of my friends. I don't remember. If I did, I don't remember if anything happened as a result. No one left, but my trust definitely did. In a retreat center in small town Iowa, surrounded by small town Iowa Catholics I felt even more isolated than before. Washed over by messages of love and unity and service and acceptance, I remained on even higher alert.

I have never been called "nigger" to my face, just when nobody thought I was listening.

Dad Hands

When I was talking to her, I had to stop and think about it: are my dad's hands still larger than mine? I looked at her tiny hand laid against mine, palm to palm. I was sure the difference wouldn't be as dramatic, but his are surely still larger than mine. They must be — he's my dad.

It had been a while since the last visit. I live in Minneapolis, just over three hours up the road from West Des Moines. It's not that far, but when you work weekends as well as weekdays and get no paid time off, it complicates things. When you're an actor juggling multiple jobs, it makes the concept of vacation time even more unlikely. At ten months and counting, home felt too close for it to have been as long as it had been.

I wasn't smooth about asking and with Dad I didn't have to be. I told Dad how tiny her hands are and how it made me wonder. Being the person he is, knowing his adult children to be bigger, more experienced versions of the tiny humans he helped create and raise, he obliged.

I had expected there to be a huge difference.

Because of my frame, my hand was not as thick. The fingers were more slender. My skin was lighter than his, but the differences were small. End to end, heel to finger tip, my hand was the same size. It was odd. And it was a testament to the fact that I am indeed an adult.

By my age, my father had a fourth child on the way. Even when I stopped being short and could look my dad in the eye, he seemed to tower over me. Even now, when I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the man who taught me to shake hands — and hug — like you mean it, I feel I will never be as big a man as he.