who ended up in a boys’ home because of repeated delinquent activity. This made it clear to me at an early age how important our family’s love, structure, and above all faith in God had been in creating my foundation. My family was very religious, and we felt all things were possible through our faith in the Almighty. My mother always used to tell me, “Things may not happen when you want them to, but through God they always happen on time.”
My remaining years at Royce Elementary were great. I excelled academically and athletically. My sixth-grade basketball coach, Ms. Tucker, ran an offense called “Give It to Tony.” Wherever I was on the court at that time, I’d get the ball and shoot. Ms. Tucker’s coaching style is probably one of the reasons I became a high scorer through my many years of competitive basketball.
I would run home after a basketball game and yell, “Mom! Dad! Guess how many points I scored in the game?” My mom would say, “How many?” and I would yell something like, “27 points.” But my parents would only say, “Oh yeah? That’s nice.” I wanted them to say more, but that’s all I would get from them. I really don’t think they believed I had scored that many points. Finally after about five games, my dad came to see me play. During our warmup, as I was pulling up a pair of knee-high, black knit socks, I looked up and was thrilled to see my father entering the gymnasium.
That game I put on a shooting exhibition, scoring 29 points and 15 rebounds. That game sparked my parents to start attending my sporting events from then on. My parents worked different hours, but one of them was always in attendance when their schedules allowed. That same year, my Royce Elementary basketball team came within one game of the city championship. The school that eliminated us was Burdge Elementary. My old buddies at Burdge beat us by one point, and from that time on I understood that Royce had become a part of me. Though I continued my neighborhood friendships, when it came to cheering for the winner, Royce was the one I chose. After my sixth-grade year, I was actually sad to leave Royce Elementary. I had established many friendships.
I sometimes wonder if the students and faculty at Royce Elementary ever really accepted my race at that time. Did they like me because of who I was as a person or only as a good basketball player? In the end, it really doesn’t matter because the students, the faculty, and I left there better people. We all became more aware of cultures different from our own.
Chapter Two
Bluster
My mother’s father, Arnett Henry Sr.—whom we all called by his nickname, “Bluster”—grew up in Mississippi in a very poor family. My grandmother would joke that when she was a child, she and her family would pass by the Henry place on their way to church on Sunday mornings, and they would see Bluster and his siblings running around their yard naked. The children would run and hide in the bushes until the horse and buggy passed by. It wasn’t that they didn’t know any better; they simply didn’t have many clothes, and what outfits they did own were kept nice in a closet, not used at playtime when they could be soiled or torn.
My grandfather never denied the story. On the contrary, he himself often told stories about how poor he was growing up. Once he was reading a magazine story about the famous basketball player Wilt Chamberlain. The magazine featured pictures of Wilt’s fabulous mansion, and it was reported that in Wilt’s bedroom he could push a button and the ceiling would open up to the sky. Bluster was unimpressed. “Shoot,” he commented, “when I was a little boy I could see the stars through my ceiling too, but we had holes in the roof; we didn’t need a button to push.”
Bluster was a religious man and often shared life stories that had a meaningful message. He often talked of life during the Jim Crow era, the time when all over the South, racist legislation known as “Jim Crow” laws kept blacks separate from whites. While these laws were in effect, from the late 1800s to the late 1960s, blacks were forbidden to use the same restaurants, bathrooms, and drinking fountains as whites. They had to occupy separate railroad cars and sit on seats at the back of the bus. They also faced restrictions in employment and voter rights, to name just a few.
Bluster grew up when things were separate but definitely not equal. He was blessed to have gotten a truck-driving job, making deliveries overnight and into the early hours of the morning in the early 1940s. Bluster said that often he would get hungry while driving and wanted to stop for something to eat, but he had to be very careful because stopping at the wrong locations could cost him his life. He would look for colored-owned restaurants or take a chance at a white establishment that might serve colored people in the rear of the restaurant. Bluster said “there was many a night” he just kept driving and went hungry because it was not safe to stop in certain towns or restaurants. He was always delighted when he found a colored-owned establishment.
Until the day he died in 1988, Bluster always spoke to white people with exaggerated politeness, addressing them as Mr. or Mrs. and saying “yes, sir” and “yes, ma’am,” no matter what their age. This bothered me when I reached high school, and one day I built up enough confidence to challenge him on these mannerisms. I had always viewed Bluster as a very strong man, but I felt he displayed weakness when bowing down to white people.
“Bluster,” I said, “Why do you address whites as sirs and ma’ams? Times have changed! It’s the ’70s now. You don’t have to do that anymore.” I then got cocky and said, “If I had grown up during your era, they would have had to kill me, because I never would have bowed down to nobody.”
Bluster sat me down and explained a few things. He said that all his life, and especially during his time of driving trucks, he had to do or say whatever it took to get a paycheck. Even though in his heart he knew he was equal to them, he had been conditioned during his young years to take an inferior role to white people in order to survive in a world where whites held all the power. He took the dehumanizing treatment for one reason and one reason only—he had four little children who depended on him, and he loved his family enough to sacrifice anything for them—even his pride. “There is nothing greater than the love of Christ and the love you have for your family,” he told me.
Bluster was the greatest grandfather I could ever have had. He was diagnosed with cancer in 1988 and given six months to live. When he told me about his diagnosis, he said, “Boy, I’m not scared to die, but what I will miss is that I won’t get to see my family anymore.” A month later, he died. We miss Bluster.
Chapter Three
Big Momma
My maternal grandmother’s name was Opal (Ball) Henry, but she was always known as “Big Momma” to her family and friends. Big Momma was a loving, caring, jolly woman who would find humor in the many struggles of her past, but I know deep down inside they bothered her.
The second youngest of 10 children in Mississippi, Big Momma had lost both her mother and father by the age of 11, and was primarily raised by older siblings. Unfortunately, she did not have photographs or many memories of her parents to share with her children and grandchildren. Like many black people in the South, the Balls had white blood in their family. In fact, several of Big Momma’s siblings had blue eyes and fair skin, and some of her cousins were 100 percent white. Big Momma recalled how the white and black cousins never acknowledged one another in public or even in private. I once asked her how hard was it for her and her siblings to know these were blood cousins and they could not talk to them because they were black. “There was love from both sides of the color line,” Big Momma said, “and it was known and felt. But the way of the South at that time would not accept the family bond.”
All her life, Big Momma worked hard. As a child, she’d had to do her share of chores on the farm. Her work ethic was “Work and work until it gets done.” She had a presence and a touch that could heal a wounded heart, and a spirit to motivate the unmotivated.
