A Boy education, a Man's Passivity, and a Gentleman's Agreement

The FREAKING Oscars!!

Anyone who has known me for a long time knows that I absolutely LOVE Oscars day! Those party’s back in the day…ahh memories. There’s one thing I have grown to love almost as much; Turner Classic Movies. Each year, the month of February they host a “31 Days of Oscar” festival, featuring award winning movies from years past. It’s still going on through the beginning of March, so you can still catch some great films.

On this day, even as I write this post, I’m enjoying a true classic, “Gentlemen’s Agreement.” From 1947, it’s the story of a journalist Philip Green who goes “undercover” to write an expose on the rampant anti-Semitism that runs rampant throughout post-war New Your City and the train set, affluent enclaves of New Canaan and Darien Connecticut. It’s a fascinating character study that makes one take a serious look at their own prejudices.

A 1947 Classic!

President John F. Kennedy used a quote in several speeches that came to mind when I started writing this. It goes…

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

How many times have we been in situations where someone tells an off-color joke that can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is; racist. Or misogynistic, or anti-Semitic, or anything remotely close to that ilk. As an African American, I admit I have been in situations that have been profoundly inappropriate. Case in point; I had a boss once that gifted me for Christmas one year, an exaggerated afro wig. “Hope this helps you reconnect with your roots boy,” was inscribed on the accompanying card. I smiled, gave a chuckle, and brushed it off.

I have regretted my response almost every day since then.

We all know the word...

What is it inside of us that allows us to completely sidestep something that we know to our core is wrong? That leaves us feeling in need of a shower, or at best a strong cocktail to try and cloud the memory. I challenge anyone to say they have never been in such a situation. Yet each instance we are, and do or say nothing, we are allowing the scourge of intolerance to fester and spread. Perhaps fear, or embarrassment, or just simple lack of knowledge as to what to do could all be blames for the “do nothing” approach. Had I spoken up to my work superior, would I have risked dismissal? Or would it have been a “teaching moment” for someone who had no ill intent but wasn’t aware of the weight their lapse of judgement carried. Sadly, I will never know…

There are several scenes in “Gentlemen’s Agreement” that are difficult to see. One such scene is between the

Dean Stockwell (l)
 and Gregory Peck

journalist, played by Gregory Peck and his young son Tommy, played by a young Dean Stockwell. Tommy runs home, in tears, to the arms of his father. When he gains his composure, he tells his father how some of the other boys in his class called him ‘dirty Jew,” and “kike.” All Tommy wanted to do was join their playground games. Instead, he was taught a very real, very painful lesson; that man’s inhumanity to man knows no age restriction.

Seeing that scene today brought a tear to my eye. Okay, more than a few tears if I’m being honest. It brought up a memory of my own education about how man treats his fellow brethren. Mine came in the 3^rd grade, on the playground of my elementary school. I could tell you almost every detail of what transpired that afternoon…down to the name of my classmate/anointed educator. As much as I’d love to share his full name with you, I won’t…for obvious reasons. Let’s just call him…R. R and I had been involved in a rather spirited series of games at the tetherball court. My growth spurt the previous summer had made me almost invincible, as I picked off one opponent after the other…some more than once after a full rotation. On his third go around, R once again couldn’t best me, and he went down again in defeat. Something in R just seemed to boil over, and before he left the court, he imparted a bit of wisdom that he picked up from his own father.

“Oh yeah, think you are something, huh Jeff,” R spat at me. “Well you are nothing but a dirty nigger! My dad says you spear chuckers should all be rounded up and sent back to Africa! Stupid nigger!”

On that spring afternoon, time seemed to stand still in that moment. While I’m sure it was silent, to me a pin drop would have sounded like cannon fire. And much like R had moments before, my own boiling point had been breached. And I blew…and threw a punch at another person for the very first time in my life. The cascade of red was almost instantaneous, as were the gasps of surprise from my classmates. I also go up in R’s face and let loose with as much smack talk my 8-year old self knew and could mutter under duress.

The ruckus had drawn the attention of the teach on duty. It just so happened that our staffer that day was a teaching aide that I adored, and felt it was returned. She rushed over, and upon her arrival, the waterworks started; mine, not R’s. He was clutching his nose, the bloodletting finally ebbing, a look of shock and anger on his face.

The Arena that is the tetherball court

“You wait till my dad finds out about what you did,” he screamed. “He’ll fix you, stupid nigger.”

The third time, as the saying goes, was indeed the charm. Why? Because our intrepid teacher’s aide heard it that time. And classmates clamored for her attention to tell of R’s previous uses of the expletive. R had hit the trifecta and earned himself a heap of trouble. I stood by, shaking with fear, awaiting the aide to shift her attention back to me. She had been so harsh with her words to R, even grabbing him by the arm and making him look her in the eye to assert that he had more than stepped in it. “It” had swallowed him and his racism almost completely.

When my turn came, I tried to pull it together, but just couldn’t. The sobbing seemed to have no end…I feared what my punishment for my part would be. But more, I feared what had busted forth from my small boy self. I didn’t fully understand the gravity of the word he had slung at me; I just knew that it was a bad word, and that using it in any context wasn’t a good one. I was also afraid that I would indeed be a target for R’s father’s “fixing.” Pitting a little boy against a grown man seemed to stack the odds…and not in my favor. But with our aides coaxing, I was finally able to tell her my side of the story…which seemed to correlate with what my other classmate/witness had sad. Once I was done, she looked my in the eye…not in the harsh fashion she had R moments ago. Rather there was a pain that even my young self could recognize.

“Are you alright,” I recall her asking.

“Uh huh,” I managed to reply, my throat still full of my sobbing. She then did something that in todays schools would be frowned upon I suspect. She hugged me…tight and whispered two words in my ear.

“I’m sorry,” she said. And that was it…at least for me.

Uh-oh! Somebody gon' git it!

A few days later, my parents were sitting front and center in the principals’ office for a conference with R and

his father. Think of any photo or video you have seen between two political leaders with a strained treaty the only thing keeping them from ripping each other apart. The purpose of this meeting was to encourage R to apologize to me, in front of all present, for what he had said. If he didn’t, expulsion would be the next step. I guess that an apology seemed a better option than being bivouacked at home. So, after some statement by the principal, R stood up and stepped towards me. R looked at me, and said…

“Sorry.” He then turned and went back to his seat. It was a less than sincere apology, even at my age I knew it. Still, something inside of me felt a delicious sense of self-satisfaction. R, a troubled kid who was known as somewhat of a bully, had been bested…by me. A black kid. And that felt…amazing. And with that, the conference was over. R and his dad stood up and walked past my folks and I and were gone. R’s dad never even glanced my way, as far as I could tell. But for a long time after, I was always a bit fearful, that R’s dad would just show up sometime…to “fix” me. But he hasn’t so far…

Told you I remembered the events of that afternoon it like it was yesterday. It’s ingrained in my memory; as if on display like the Constitution or the Declaration of Independence. I bet you can figure out why. My intro course into the study of man’s inhumanity to man.

Now why couldn’t 8-year old me summon that same gumption to correct my boss for a much more subtle, but nonetheless hurtful occurrence. We forfeit so much along our path to adulthood…all in the name of gaining maturity. Sometimes I wonder if that trade-off is completely fair.

Another of the most poignant moments in “Gentlemen’s Agreement” is a conversation between lead actress Dorothy McGuire as Kathy, and supporting actor John Garfield as Dave, a close friend of Peck’s character. In the scene, McGuire is concerned that she is indeed viewed as anti-Semitic by Peck’s character, who is also her lover interest. She tells a story of having recently attended a dinner party, where another guest told

John Garfield and
Dorthy McGuire

an incredibly anti-Semitic story. She said after he completed the story, she felt sick; a sickness that went all the way to her core. So much so that she made her apologies and left the dinner early. After her recount, Garfield asks her a simple, but pointed question…

“So, Kathy, what did you do about it?”

She seemed a bit confused by the question, so he once again asks her what she did about this story that so sickened her.

“Nothing,” she replies. “I did nothing.”

As her eyes well up with tears, she suddenly understands the gravity of Dave’s question. By doing nothing, and removing herself from the situation, she may as well have condoned it. The light bulb goes on, and Kathy at last understands.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

So, this post has been jammed with a lot of info…much pertaining to a great film. But at the heart of the matter is a question I pose to each of you. In the scenarios outlined, the same question is at the root. If you were in the situation, what would you have done? Sometimes the most difficult thing to do is to hold a mirror up to ourselves. The reflection we see isn’t always a pretty one…but we can change. If we want to.

Until next time!