For the first couple of weeks during the beginning of my seventh grade year at Greer Middle School, I left the house every morning wearing my new windbreaker jacket with its conspicuous patches. I didn’t want to wear it, but I also knew it was expected since my dad made me become a Junior Klansmen. I was riding the school bus in those days, which picked us up at the top of the hill on the opposite end of our street. On my early morning walks to the bus stop, I always tucked that jacket away so I wouldn’t have to explain those patches to anyone. I was conscience-stricken about the things my parents expected of me solely because they wanted me to be like them.
Even though I didn’t wear the jacket at school, I had to carry it with me wherever I went if it wasn’t in my locker. I couldn’t, or wouldn't, hang it up in a coat closet and I wasn’t about to casually drape it over the back of a chair. I was hoping to avoid any and all questions about those patches and their significance. The first opportunity I got I usually stuffed it in my locker. At the end of the day I always took it home with me and usually put it back on when I got off of the bus, provided no one was around. I did that because I believed my parents expected to see me proudly wearing my jacket.
However, at school I was as nervous as a cat over someone asking me about my windbreaker. I also realized it was probably inevitable. Then one day it happened. It was late in the school day and we were changing classes between bells. I had the jacket folded on top of my books because we were headed home after the next class, so I’d just retrieved it from my locker. Mike was sitting near me as we waited for the bell to ring. He noticed one of the patches on my jacket, pointed to it and said “What’s that?”
Mike was from the south side of town where most of the families didn’t appear to have quite as much as those living in the newer suburbs that had popped up on the north side of Greer. Not long after this incident I saw Mike again, outside of school. My mom and I, as we liked to do on Saturday afternoons, would visit her dad, my Papa Ralph. My maternal grandfather also lived on the south side of town and was even lower on the social class ladder than I perceived Mike to be. As Judy-O and her dad chatted in the kitchen over some freshly parched peanuts, I headed to the front room of the house where I happened to hear some voices outside. I walked out onto the porch and looked across the street towards the only vacant lot. I recognized Mike and four other guys about my age or older. They were tossing a football. Besides Mike there was Timmy, who we all called “One Eye,” even though both of his eyes were perfectly fine. Then there were the three Lambert brothers. They were overall-wearing farm boys who all looked alike except for the color of their hair. Each of them was known to start a fight at the drop of a hat for no particular reason. I knew I’d never want to cross paths with any of them. I didn’t actually know them well and they certainly didn’t know me, but that was about to change.
As soon as I walked out onto the porch, one of the Lambert brothers noticed me. While I couldn’t hear him I could tell he was asking the other boys about me. Mike looked up, saw me, said something to his friends and they all began nodding affirmatively. Mike then waved me over to join them. I’d played plenty of backyard football, but never with guys this big and strong. They were several weight classes up from where I thought I belonged, so I wasn’t too excited about playing. I also knew that saying “No thanks” would be a death knell of sorts in our social circles. I wasn’t scared, but I did fear somewhat for my own safety. Didn’t matter though, next thing I knew I was trotting across the street - another out-of-body experience to add to that year’s hit list.
We immediately picked teams for a three-on-three game of football. Our team kicked off and the youngest of the Lamberts, the one with sandy blonde hair, caught the football and broke towards his right and into my path. He went hard to my left and I realized his intention was to stiff-arm me and barrel on by. That’s when I instinctively ducked his outstretched arm and dove at his legs for a perfectly timed tackle. By the time he jumped up I was already on my feet, like I did it every day. He gave me a look of surprise and then let me know that was a damn fine tackle. The other guys did, too. I can’t tell you what happened the rest of the afternoon or who won. I just know they treated me as an equal and it all ended well at a time in my life when I could use some optimism.
However, that day during September of ‘74 when Mike asked me about the patch, I shrugged nonchalantly and said “Klan patch.” My classmate puzzled over that one for only a moment and then gave me a nod, as if he understood. The fact he vouched for me that day playing football told me his dad might have been kind of like my dad and thought things that my dad thought. I also doubt if anyone would be surprised if one of those Lambert boys showed up at a Klan rally.
Once Mike knew, it was only a matter of time before other classmates found out and I could tell they were eyeballing my jacket. Some even asked about it. A couple of days go by and it’s not even a big deal anymore. I didn’t get sent home, didn’t get in any trouble, nobody got their feelings hurt, at least not yet. I wasn’t even hiding my jacket with as much urgency as before. What did happen was another friend of mine, a black kid, found out. I saw him glaring at me and the jacket as I held it in my arms on the way to our final class of the day. I’ll never forget his expression. It wasn’t hatred and it wasn't loathing. It was fear. All of a sudden I felt very small and incredibly ashamed.
The remainder of the day at school was a blur. Getting home on the bus was too.
When I entered our house I walked directly into the kitchen where my mom was preparing supper. Judy-O didn’t stop what she was doing but as soon as she saw me she knew something was wrong. She questioned me but I hung my head. I had the crumpled nylon jacket in one hand and I set it down on the counter. She asked me again what was wrong. I honestly don’t remember exactly what I said or how I said it, but I let my mom know I didn’t want to be in the Klan anymore. My mom stopped cooking long enough to nervously light another cigarette. After Judy-O quickly exhaled a stream of smoke in the air above our heads, she asked, “Do you want to tell your dad, or do you want me to?”
I’d so hurriedly made the decision to ditch the Klan I hadn’t really thought about how my dad was going to react, but I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. So my mom finally says she’d tell him later that evening after I’d gone to bed.
Looking back on that time of my life, one of the things that duped me into believing the Klan must have been more socially acceptable than I ultimately understood it to be - other than the fact that practically everyone in our circle-of-influence didn’t openly object to racial segregation - was my mom’s involvement. Judy-O had always given me the vibe she was more understanding and tolerant of people of different ethnicities. She always seemed to understand their plight. So her obsequious devotion to my dad and his hobbies led me to believe it was all okay, until I realized it wasn’t.
The next day and the days that followed, my dad didn’t yell at me, he didn’t scold me and he didn’t spank me. He didn’t talk to me either, not for a whole decade. That’s right, the silent treatment for ten years - which spanned my entire four years of high school and beyond. We lived under the same roof and ate at the same table and he never acknowledged me except for one time in high school when I had to ask him what I hoped would be a thought-provoking question. It took him about one second to respond with “No,” end of discussion. If there was something he needed for me to do he would have my mom tell me. She’d then say something like “Phillip, your dad wants you to cut the grass” or “Phillip, you dad needs you to take out the trash.” Chores like those were performed immediately, without any lip. As a result, my old man and I never had an actual conversation for ten consecutive years.
In hindsight, I now realize how much I probably embarrassed my dad. He had to go back to the Klan den on Cannon Street and tell his racist buddies that his piece-of-shit son didn’t have the cojones to be a Klansman. To be honest, I don’t know what he said or did. Even though Tommie Dean and I eventually developed a cordial relationship, we never talked much about his Klan affiliation. It’s almost like it never happened. It wasn’t until I asked him to be the best man at my wedding in ‘84 that he decided to bury the hatchet and speak to me again. Later in life, during conversations with my dad, I’d make occasional references to the Klan and his participation. He always nodded his head in response but never commented in any way, as if he had nothing to say about it. It’s like that time in history only exists in folklore and Bull the Klansman is some mythical being.
I understand, now more than ever, why oral histories regarding ancestral legacies can be sacred to some families. Now that I’m not only a father, but a grandfather, I know how it makes me feel proud when one of my progeny shows an interest in any of my hobbies. I can imagine how hurt I might feel if one of them suddenly shaded me because I was outspoken about something they didn’t agree with. Looking back on my decision to denounce the Klan through my actions, even though I was too afraid to confront my ol’ man about it, was absolutely the right thing to do. I’ve never second-guessed it, even though my dad, whom I desperately wanted to like me, treated me with contempt instead. The thing is, I was beginning to not care as much about what my Tommie Dean thought of me. I was finally at an age where I was developing my own opinions about the world around me, which allowed me to establish my own beliefs based on an evolving perception of right and wrong, good and bad, virtue and evil. I knew racism was wrong, me pretending to be xenophobic was bad, and the Klan was evil.
I also realize that writing about this time of my life and telling my truth is effectively letting some skeletons out of the closet. I’m not going to apologize for that either. I’m self-aware enough about my connection with my own past to understand that just because we sweep all that dirt under the rug doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I’ve spent a large portion of my adult life pretending a lot of my past didn’t happen, like my dad did with his Klan affiliation. Now that I know what I know, I’ve decided to do some housekeeping of my own. No more skeletons in the closet, no more dirt under the rug.
© 2023 Joseph Phillip Lister Sr.
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