Memories of a Liberal

"This is for the Ray Robertses, Bubbas and other conservatives who label liberals as socialists, communists and 'libtards.'

A relative approached me, a strange look on his face, and told me that my sister and I were wanted at the back door. My mother was born in Detroit, Texas. She worked in other cities but always considered Detroit her home. When she died in the mid-1950s, we held her funeral there with the viewing in her family home.

This was in the mid-1950s, in a very segregated community.

We approached our back door, and an elderly black man said, 'Miss Polly, Mister Johnny, the colored folk would like to say goodbye to Miss Mell.'

My sister and I of course agreed, and 25 or 30 of Detroit’s darker-skinned residents in their Sunday best walked in a single line past Mama’s coffin. I saw tears in some eyes, smiles on some lips and heard a muttered, 'Thank you.'

Each in their own way said goodbye to Miss Mell, and was quickly gone.

I never knew what acts of kindness occurred that inspired that tribute to my mother; she had never told me or my sister about them.

In later years, one black lady did tell me that Mama was the kindest person she had ever known and let it go at that.

Not only am I proud of Mama, but I am also proud that all her life she was both a liberal and a caring human being."

John Nance Garner, V

Denton, Texas

The above piece was written by my good friend, Jack.  As I've told you before, Jack is named after a great-uncle, John Nance Garner, IV, who was the first vice-president of FDR.  Jack loves to write letters to the Editor of the Denton Record-Chronicle, which has a huge conservative following.  He writes BIG.  If the folks he writes to were to hear him, he sounds BIG as well.  A popular actor with the Denton Community Theater, Jack has a voice that projects from here to everywhere!  I miss our friendly banter on current issues, but I get a big kick out of reading his Letters to the Editor online.  This one was published yesterday, February 8, 2011.

I remember one of the first acts of friendship Jack and I shared.  On an ancient electric typewriter, and by listening to a tape on a small tape recorder, I typed a play Jack had written called "If Elephants Could Fly".  It was a humorous take on his feelings at the time that life had been dumping on him.  What ever happened to that script, Jack?

Until next time..

Peace,

Marilyn