Everyone seems to think today is Dr. King's Birthday; it was 01/15 (re-send)

[Guest guest]

Well, after listening to much on my Satellite radio today, and after

giving this whole day alot of thought, reading Dr.King's biography

on the web, etc., I decided that I had some things that I would

like to say about the meaning of this day.

First, let me welcome all our new members to our group(s); Despite

our Multiple Surprises, we are an amazingly energetic and communi

cative lot of people, which is our strength, collectively.

Soooo, as those of you who have been on these groups for some time

know, I am of sephardic jewish background--this is not about religion,

but about ethnicity. This means that my family--all of them jewish--

and my ancestors are of Mediterranean ancestry: Spanish, Italian,

Portuguese, North African and Turkish, with a little Dutch thrown in

as the Dutch were kind enough to rescue so many of us after a big

forced exile from Spain in 1492. My own ancestors came here in 1694.

So, what might this have to do with today's honoring of Dr. King? (O.K.,

so you did not ask, but I pose the question.) A lot. As a person who

is both Mediterranean and jewish (i.e. middle-eastern) ancestry, and

who until a few years ago had black extremely curly hair ( It is now

black and extremely straight, limp and wimpy), I have experienced a

multitude of prejudicial responses to my daring to be here and to have

survived a great deal, as has each of you. I have olive skin which turns

exceedingly dark should it be exposed to even the slightest ray of sun.

As a teenager, I still had super-curly hair, and was returning from an

extended visit to Mexico City when the following occurred--all of this

prior to anyone's even suspecting that I had MS--so this is not really

about MS, though I was diagnosed with it five years after all this.

I was returning from Mexico City, and as the planes were loaded with

people by the thousands fleeing the U.S. under the McCarthy era (just

a fact and relevant (not a political comment, just an historic fact) to

what then happened to me. I had taken a bus from Mexico City as

the airlines were all tied up with the arrivees to Mexcio City and to

Guadalajara, the trains were jammed, and I therefore, having been

ordered by my father (aka: he who shall not disobeyed) to return home

forthwith, I was enroute to first Los Angeles where my eldest sister lived,

and then on by air to Portland, Oregon, where our family still resided.

At the hotel, a Hilton, I think, there was no problem. As a matter of fact

it turned out that in El Paso, where the bus had finally stopped, there was

a large family of Rojases in the oil industry. People at the hotel just assumed

that I was among that crowd, and treated me royally, and I endeavored to

tip accordingly.

However, the next day, after a sumptuous breakfast at my hotel, I decided

to be really gutsy, as I had a wait of more than a day until I caught the

train to Phoenix and then to Los Angeles, and to explore. First, I decided

to take a bus to the Art Museum, which was new and recommended highly

at the hotel.

So, I stepped aboard the bus, paid my fare, and was ordered to be seated

at the back of the bus. At first this did not confuse me at all, as I was still

in school and most school buses loaded from the rear forward. But in a

few minutes some elderly women with rather pink skin and died gray to

white hair, that sort of blue, purple tint of the era. They were sitting in the

first row. Then we meandered on a few blocks more and more people,

all rather pallid compared to me, were seated in the first three rows of seats.

Now, I was alert, but still not suspicious.

Eventually, we disembarked at the Art Museum where the people ahead

of me on the bus disappeared through the front door. I followed, and just

as I got to the main entrance, I noticed that the door was closed. It did

appear to be locked, so I knocked as there were many people inside. A

small, older woman, with pink skin, blue eyes, and blue-lavender hair

poked her head out and informed me that " We should have put up a sign

as the museum was closing 'for repairs,' but we are so very sorry "

She did not tell me when I might return nor when the museum might

" re-open. "

However, I was young, naive, and had not been the south nor the south

west since early childhood with my parents. The hotel had recommended

a new restaurant which also featured Cajun dishes, and as it was not far

away, I decided to walk to it and just enjoy and early lunch, I had still

not quite put it all together.

So, off I went, arrived at the restaurant. It was now 11:30 a.m.; the place

was completely empty. I started to enter when a nice lady with pink skin,

lavender hair and blue eyes popped out to tell me that they had had so many

reservations that day for the business lunch hour that they could not fit even

one more person in. She closed and locked the door.

Now, I was really thinking---back to when I had gotten off the bus and the

first thing that I had seen were the drinking fountains labelled black or white,

the restrooms labeled black or white (no brown nor tan). I had been rescued

from a real conundrum when a kindly woman (African-American) had appeared

and explained to me that the only drinking fountain that worked was the one

labelled " black, " and that the only restroom that worked was the one labelled

" black. " She was wearing a black dress, white apron and little white cloth

sort of cap on her head. I was beginning to put all this together.

So, as I walked back to the hotel, I began to try to make some kind of

sense out of all this. I thought of the woman who had explained about

the drinking fountains and the restrooms to me. I had been instructed

by the hotel that all facilities were available to everyone. It then dawned

on me that all hotel residents were " not-black, " and that some staff were

clearly Spanish-speaking primarily, and that some were " black. "

The light was dawning, but not quite enough. Eventually, I boarded the

train in to Phoenix-Los Angeles, and did note that one passenger who

was clearly of African-American origin was being taunted from outside

the train by a group of small African-American kids. Hmmmmm.

So, we managed to get through Phoenix and on to Los Angeles.

My sister arrived at the old train station in Los Angeles, off Olivero

Street, and cheerfully greeted me. Then her face fell. (She tanned,

too, but had much lighter hair and some long-lost relative's blue eyes.)

Then she said, " Good heavens, n; we cannot take you to the new

Hotel Stattler for dinner looking like THAT! " And they didn't. We never

went anywhere the entire time that I was visiting them in Orange County.

Eventually, after a few days, I boarded a Convair turbo-prop plane in

Los Angeles (before it was called " LAX, " which to me sounds like

some sort of laxative anyway), was seated comfortably, had a lovely

lunch and dinner--it took longer in the pre-jet era, and landed safely

in Portland, Oregon, where things got really strange.

My mother was there when the plane landed, and seemed to have

trouble recognizing me as I walked toward her. (My mother was on

rare occasions a bit dramatic.) I approached and told her that I was

going to retrieve my luggage first. She screamed at me. " Oh! I had

no idea that the fact I saw in the window of the plane was YOU!

Good Grief, child; we cannot go out to the Benson Hotel to dinner

with you looking like that! This was particularly funny as my mother

was usually about as dark--just born that way--as I was half-way

through a summer of sun-exposure. So, we went home to Lake

Oswego, Oregon.

I was beginning to put all the pieces together. So, I recounted all of

the above and more to my father, an attorney. He listened intently,

pulled his dark-skinned, curly-haired self (black hair, brown eyes)

together, and made an announcement: " Kid, you and I are going

OUT to dinner, just us two, and we are going to have a lot to talk

about. And we did, at what was then one of the most expensive

and gourmet restaurants in Portland, which is still a great place to

eat.

This was in 1954; a few things have changed, at least in some

parts of the nation. Portland, during the time that I lived there,

was completely segregated.

So, this is what happens when I listen to the radio and am reminded

more of what Dr. King's vision for us all actually was.

Love to you all,

n