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Callaloo 24.1 (2001) 108-112



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It's Just a Flag, Isn't It?

Michelle Knoebel


It was the end of the workday, and I was hungry. I was too tired to cook and decided to go out for some fast food. Bar-b-que. Yes, it sounded good. I immediately thought of Smitty's, and my mouth began to water. It is amazing how food can conjure up memories past. Smitty's, a locally-owned restaurant in my hometown, has delicious brisket and piping hot homemade peach cobbler, and on this particular day I was absolutely craving it.

But there are other memories attached to this restaurant.

Growing up in a small, central Texas town, I played softball for a junior-league team. I was the catcher, and quite good, if I do say so myself. The team, nicknamed the Short Ribs, competed and won the city title. To celebrate, we were invited by the sponsor of the team to have a party at his restaurant.

I was one of four children in a middle-class family, and the thought of eating out was exciting. Because of the cost, my family rarely got the opportunity to eat in a restaurant. I couldn't wait to tell my mom about the party.

"Mom, the team has been invited to a party at Smitty's to celebrate winning the city league," I said with enthusiasm.

"Smitty's?" she asked. "Isn't that restaurant located on Oak Street?"

Looking at the invitation, I nodded. I suddenly felt very nervous. Why was she questioning a free meal? What was the problem?

"I don't think that it's a good idea for you to go to the party," she said.

I was devastated. After all, I was an integral part of the team. I should attend the party and celebrate with the others.

"Why?" I asked. "Why can't I go?" Using the same ploy that any other self-respecting 12 year-old would use, I said, "Everyone else is getting to go to the party . . ." Then I waited to hear her response. It was rapid. It was crushing. I have never forgotten it.

"It's on the wrong side of the tracks," Mom said.

"Tracks," I thought. What were these tracks my mom was referring to? "What do you mean, Mom?"

"It's a rough neighborhood," was all she said. She looked away. It was as though she wanted to end the conversation right there--without another word. But I pressed the issue. I needed to know just what the problem was. After all, we were going to receive the winner's trophy and part of it--I thought, a big part of it--was mine.

After much discussion, Mom finally consented to let me go to the party. On the way, she instructed my brothers, sister and myself to lock the doors as we traveled across the "tracks" to the restaurant. [End Page 108]

The neighborhood looked similar to many other neighborhoods that I had seen. There were homes with well-tended lawns. There were nice cars in the driveways that children had to maneuver around to shoot basketballs. Yes, this neighborhood looked very familiar to me except for one thing: Most of the children playing in the yards and riding bicycles along the sidewalks were black. I had never seen that many black children before. There were no black children in the middle-class school I attended. I never thought much about this fact. I guess there probably were other children from mixed backgrounds--such as mine. But I had never before thought of things in such simple (and now I know they are not simple) black/white terms before. And I had no idea where I fit in.

We arrived at the restaurant, and my family entered the small, warm building. Many of my friends were already there, and we began talking excitedly about the winning game. The owner, Mr. Smitty, told us how proud he was of "his" team. His wife and children also showed up for the event, because...

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