Thank you Henry!

Any other night, Dad was at the table waiting for us, his four sons, when Mom called us in for supper. Tonight, Dad was on the phone so as we walked into the kitchen, Mom did that “shhh” thing with her finger in front of her lips. We quickly quieted down and found our seats at the table. We could hear Dad talk, but he wasn’t saying much, “Ok, sure, I understand. Ok, I’ll let them know. Ok, thanks.” He untangled the stretchy phone cord and hung the handset back in its cradle on the wall. He quickly settled into his spot at the head of the table, “Boys, something has happened and we’re in for some big changes.” He paused—because that’s the way he talked. He always paused.

I’m the oldest of the four sons and the bravest of the four, “What happened, Dad?”

He didn’t hesitate, “There’s a judge in New Orleans Federal Court. He just ordered all the schools in our Parish to de-segregate when school starts in September,” he paused, again.

Number two son asked, “What’s de-segregate?”

I knew what it was but didn’t try to answer. He was asking Dad.

“It means all the Black and White kids go to school together.”

It sounded really important to Dad, but I don’t think it was that big a deal to me and my brothers. He talked some more about how some people would be mad about the judge’s decision, some might even try to defy the judge. He said one thing that I’ll never forget, “Some people might even be willing to fight and go to jail.” He stopped abruptly like there was more to that thought, but he decided not to say it.

We didn’t know any Black kids, so they were a mystery to us. Were we different? Other than our looks, of course? In my mind, the looks were not a big deal.  My friends all looked different—I had red hair, pale skin, and freckles, my two best friends had dark hair, and what Mom described as “olive” complexions. I was tall and thin (back then), another friend was short and stocky. Looks wouldn’t matter to me. But, we heard that Black people and White people were different. We heard that a lot. Now they were coming. We’d see them every day, they’d be sitting next to us in class, walking in line in front or behind us in the cafeteria. Would we have things to talk about? I knew they played ball because Willie Mays was my favorite baseball player. I looked forward to seeing him play on TV when the New York Giants were the Game of the Week. Dad and I watched it every Saturday afternoon on Channel 6 on our new color TV. We knew, too, that some Black people were good at making music because I had been listening to Stevie Wonder and the Supremes on my AM radio. 

Over the summer, my dad and I talked more about everything that was happening. He told me not to worry, “It’s all gonna be OK.”

I did worry though. I asked again, “What will I say to the new guys?”

He said, “They’re probably more nervous about this move than you are. Just talk about the same stuff you talk about with your other friends like sports, school, the cafeteria food, girls.” 

That seemed perfectly logical to me, so I mostly stopped worrying until I heard Mom and Dad kind of whispering about something one afternoon. Dad knew I heard, so he made the quick decision to tell me all about it, “Some people are building a new school system, some private schools, that won’t have to follow Judge Crystal’s ruling. Some of your teachers are leaving to go to the new schools; and, they took some stuff, some band instruments, sports equipment, some books. And, some of your friends will likely be going there.” 

“Are we gonna go there?” I didn’t know what to expect.

“No.” He paused. “No, we’re staying right where we are.  Everything’s gonna be fine.” The Company (the one that built our town and employed most of the men, including Dad) is going to help out. And, they did. Two wives of the local managers became teachers, the Company bought some new books, replaced the sports equipment, and replaced some of our band equipment. A couple of other local folks helped out, as well. The Pastor of our Presbyterian Church would teach, and another one of the managers became our baseball coach that spring. 

The new schools started a week before us, so we saw new busses in the neighborhood picking up some of our friends whose parents chose to send them to the new schools. You couldn’t tell what people were thinking but everywhere you went, the grocery store, the post office, the barbershop, they would ask, “Which school are you going to?” I wasn’t afraid to tell them I was staying at our old school. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to leave. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I was kind of proud that we were staying in our school and proud of my Dad for making a strong decision. I learned many years later that it was a very brave decision.

About two weeks into the new school year, I noticed during P.E. that this one new guy was pretty good at basketball, very fast, good moves, and I liked that he always yelled, “Bingo!” every time I made a shot. His name was Henry and we became friends. It turned out that we were a lot more alike than different. We hit the Pepsi machine rather than the Coke machine at break times. His favorite food in the cafeteria was red beans, rice, and sausage, with cornbread—my favorite, too. It was tenth grade and like every other tenth-grader in Louisiana, we were taking biology and hating it. Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle were our favorite baseball players, we liked the Four Tops more than the Beetles, we both went to church on Sundays, we were both respectful of others, and the lesson I learned from Henry was perhaps the most profound of all of life’s lessons: as human beings on planet earth we are all more alike than different.

 It was more than that. Henry was lightning fast and I was a good shooter. The next year we were both starters on the varsity. Our different skills made us a better team. Henry was the first guy down-court when we ran our fast break—the opposing team took off after him and followed him to the baseline, leaving me wide open just beyond the free-throw line. Henry passed to me, I dropped the shot, turned, and headed back to set up our defense. We must have done it a hundred times that season. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but it was clear to me that we, Henry and I, were much stronger together thanks to our differences.

We graduated the next spring and gradually drifted apart as high-school friends often do, but thanks to advances in technology we reconnected nearly half-century later on Facebook. Sadly, Henry passed away in 2017 and I never told him how much I valued our friendship, nor how that friendship impacted my life. I spent most of the five decades after high school working as a manager for some of the largest companies on the planet. I was hugely successful because I searched for diversity in my teams. I recognized the differences in skill, abilities, motivation, and I melded those differences into powerful machines to exceed all expectations. A Vice President once asked me of my team, “How do they function so well, they seem to have nothing in common?”

My answer may have puzzled him, but at that moment I thought of Henry and Judge Crystal, “Oh, they have more in common than you might think.” I didn’t bother to explain it to him.

I’m still a good shooter, but my results are even better if I’m working with someone fast to feed me the ball.