Little Boys at Play – A Story of Segregation in the South

by Malcolm Tatum

Like most boys growing up in the Sixties, I enjoyed having other boys to toss around a ball with. With my earliest years being spent in a farming community, there were not that many chances to play games with other children. Imagine my excitement when my parents made a decision to sell the farm and move into a small town.

In June of 1966, we packed up everything we owned and headed for town. I remember my pride and joy – my bright red Western flyer bicycle perched atop the mountain of furniture as we prepared to pull out and head for our new home. I knew that our new house was only a few blocks from the elementary school I would be attending, and we had heard from the realtor that a number of kids lived in the general vicinity of the school. The idea of having lots of kids to ride bikes with, and play football and baseball, had me ready to go, even with the daunting task of entering a new school beckoning at the end of summer.

Within a day or two, I had made the acquaintance of a boy that lived on the next block of our dead end street. My new friend had an easy smile, loved to ride bikes and had a shiny new baseball glove that he was all set to start breaking in. One afternoon, we met at a churchyard that was between both our homes and had a great time playing Catch until dusk came, when our mothers began to call us in for supper. Over the next several days, we played more Catch, tossed around a football, and rode our bikes the three blocks to the old-fashioned icehouse, which sported candy and soft drinks. Both of us seemed to be having a great time.

There was one factor that proved to be difficult for some people to handle. I am white and my new friend was black.

At first, there was nothing said. However, within a week or two, both our mothers forbade us to play with one another. It made absolutely no sense to us at all. We were just having fun and not bothering anybody. We were always within easy calling distance of our homes, and never got into any trouble. Pleas for a reversal to the policy fell on deaf ears in both our homes.

Finally, we both snuck out and decided on a quick game of Catch. Within minutes, my friend’s mom called him home. I followed and hid in some bushes near their back yard. From there, I could see my friend receiving a switching for his disobedience. I made my way back home, confused and unsure of why it was so bad for us to play together. There was little time to consider the matter any more, as my mother had gotten wind of our secret trek and a fate similar to that of my friend was waiting for me.

There were no more fun and games, no more bike trips to the icehouse. Even after school resumed, we kept our distance on the playground. Being in the same grade, we did see each other often, but over the years we still had little or nothing to do with one another.

What neither of us realized at the time is that our activities had been reported to local persons who were involved with the Ku Klux Klan. Yes, even in the mid-sixties and with integration in full swing in our little town, there were still pockets of people who thought it was completely unacceptable for a black child and a white child to play together. While there was little they could do about the school situation, they were dedicated to preventing a mixing of the races off the school grounds.

I was well into my twenties before I learned that my parents had gotten a gentle warning that if I persisted in playing with my black friend, there was the very real possibility that certain persons in the community would find it necessary to “counsel” both myself and my friend. My parents were no strangers to prejudice. They had grown up in a South where such divisions were taken for granted. They also knew, from their own experiences relating to helping out black neighbors in the community  here we previously lived, that there was real danger involved in crossing those who were in the Klan.

Did my friend’s mother receive a similar warning? I will never know. What I do know is that the incident created a wall between the two boys; a barrier that never went down in all the years we attended school together. That wall was not created by either of us, but it kept us apart in ways that our own wills would never have been able to create or sustain.

My son does not have to be concerned with this sort of thing. He is perfectly free to have friends with any color of skin. What he takes for granted is something I am thankful for every day. He will never have to avoid a friendship because a group of bigots think it is wrong for him to associate with children whose skin color is different from his.

While some things are better, none of us should think for even a moment that racial bigotry is a relic of our collective past. What was once overt is now often covert. Perhaps some day we will rid our society of racial prejudice completely. If not in my lifetime, hopefully in time for my grandchildren to know what it is like to base our opinion of another human being strictly on ethics and character, and not on skin color.

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