Thank heaven for men like Darius Gray. I’ve been an admirer for a couple of years. Prior to that I didn’t know who he was, which may seem odd to the thousands of people who recognize both the name and the face of the onetime newsman of KSL television in Salt Lake City.
I was first introduced by a podcast, and then the video “Nobody Knows: The Untold Story of Black Mormons.” More recently I got better acquainted reading a trilogy of historical novels which he co-authored, “Standing on the Promises”. The sufferings and hardships experienced by African Americans in the distant and not-so-distant past were brought to life like no history book could. As I read, I cringed at man’s inhumanity to man, and in the process reflected, not always proudly, on my own youth.
The year was 1972. It was the beginning of 7th period, the last hour of the day at Prescott High School. Thirty teenage boys were stuffed desk to desk in a small classroom. “Mr. Mac”, our auto shop teacher, was notoriously late getting back from the teacher’s lounge. Today was no exception. As we waited, the jabbering of ten overlapping conversations filled the room. One of them was a testy exchange between two teenage boys who were throwing insulting barbs at one another. No one paid much attention until one called the other a “stinking n*gger”. For a moment the room went silent. All eyes focused on the boy who let the n-word slip from his lips, then on the boy the caustic barb was directed at, both of whom were as white as Florida beach sand, and then finally on Barton Brown who was sitting a row away from the other two.
Barton was a friendly unassuming boy, always quick to smile. He was easy to like and didn’t have an enemy in the world. He would have been just another friendly face in the crowd, had he not been African American, one of only three out of a student body of nearly 2,000. Like Joe Louis, Barton was a credit to his race – the human race.
With the n-word still hanging in the air, a classmate prodded, “Barton, you’re not going to let him get away with that are you?” Others joined in. Barton was slight of build and probably hadn’t been in a fight in his life. He wasn’t eager to exchange blows, but what do you do when someone has insulted you and every member of your family, and peer pressure is squeezing you to do something about it? The class was ready to retire outside to witness some fisticuffs when the first boy apologized for the remark. Barton candidly accepted the apology. Every one sat back down. Mr. Mac showed up to teach. The class went on as normal.
With the n-word still hanging in the air, a classmate prodded, “Barton, you’re not going to let him get away with that are you?” Others joined in. Barton was slight of build and probably hadn’t been in a fight in his life. He wasn’t eager to exchange blows, but what do you do when someone has insulted you and every member of your family, and peer pressure is squeezing you to do something about it? The class was ready to retire outside to witness some fisticuffs when the first boy apologized for the remark. Barton candidly accepted the apology. Every one sat back down. Mr. Mac showed up to teach. The class went on as normal.
In retrospect, two things stand out. First, this incident was soon forgotten by everyone, everyone except Barton who I’m certain remembers it to this day. Second, though the slip of the n-word came from a rural “cowboy” who might be expected to harbor prejudice; it could easily have come from almost any other classmate. The word was common. If any of us really held ill will toward African Americans, it was not based on firsthand experience. Most of us had never had a conversation with an African-American. Other than Barton, there wasn’t opportunity.
With a 1970 census count of 13,631, there likely were less than ten African-Americans in our town in Northern Arizona. What the town lacked in African Americans, it made up for with a vibrant Hispanic community. While in grade school a Hispanic family lived next door. Their son was my best friend. One might expect one minority to be sympathetic of another, but no. My friend and his family used the n-word casually and frequently. Such were my growing-up years. I heard it at home. I heard it at school. I even heard it from one of my teachers. Sadly, I was a product of my time.
With a 1970 census count of 13,631, there likely were less than ten African-Americans in our town in Northern Arizona. What the town lacked in African Americans, it made up for with a vibrant Hispanic community. While in grade school a Hispanic family lived next door. Their son was my best friend. One might expect one minority to be sympathetic of another, but no. My friend and his family used the n-word casually and frequently. Such were my growing-up years. I heard it at home. I heard it at school. I even heard it from one of my teachers. Sadly, I was a product of my time.
Thank heaven for change, both individual and society in general.
Last year my son attended a premier of “Nobody Knows” at which Darius Gray was present. After the viewing, Nate approached Darius and extended his hand for a handshake. Darius brushed it aside, called him “Brother”, and gave him a big hug instead. When hearing of the experience, I found myself a bit envious.
I too would like to give Brother Gray a hug, to express my admiration for him and other African Americans who persevered through horrendous adversity, who put the promptings of the Spirit above all else, who didn’t let social snubs, condescending attitudes, and blatant bigotry detour them from the path they knew to be right. Thank you Darius, not only for your own example, but for working with Margaret Young to bring to light other pioneers, who like you, persevered and held true to the faith.
