2008 Woodie Awards
Livin' the dream: Going Home
Dean Atyia
Issue date: 10/10/07 Section: Opinions
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I came to the Northeast to see what the rest of the country is like, and I embrace this nook of changing leaves and snowy fields for both its merits and its faults. Where I come from, we don't have open discussion of racial inequalities. We avoid the D-word characterized by socialist spending and flimsy rulers who would rather shake hands than pull triggers. Instead, we tend to focus on a strict regimen of nepotism and exclusivity. It is for these very reasons that I found my beliefs to be in the minority during high school, and I tend to think that's why I was often ostracized from social groups and not because I couldn't cut the mustard on the football field like my dad said. The ball was really big and my hands were so small - it wasn't my fault. But even for all its racist tendencies and strict adherence to flawed tradition, I find myself glad when I return to its warm mystique.
I grew up in Memphis, Tenn, home to Elvis Presley, smooth blues, tangy barbecue and some of the oldest cotton families in the South. My summers were filled with wet ribs dripping onto my father's bright seersucker suit and days upon days without ever putting on shoes. My friends and I all learned to swim by being thrown into the water and told, "Go." When we came home with a note from the teacher, we traded it for the back of a hand. To me, this was the perfect childhood, but as I got older, the South became a more complicated place.
My best friend got a job as a lifeguard at a country club when he was fifteen - I worked at a video store in midtown. He would come by, and I would give him all the movies he wanted. In exchange, I would go to the pool and swim through the afternoon. On one of these afternoons, a family of members and their guests walked into the club to enjoy the cool water and the setting sun. Within 10 minutes, the manager approached my friend and informed him that he had to ask the guests to leave. Why? Because they were black. I wasn't even a guest, and I hadn't been given a second look when I walked in. My friend quit that instant, and I drove him home.
I grew up in Memphis, Tenn, home to Elvis Presley, smooth blues, tangy barbecue and some of the oldest cotton families in the South. My summers were filled with wet ribs dripping onto my father's bright seersucker suit and days upon days without ever putting on shoes. My friends and I all learned to swim by being thrown into the water and told, "Go." When we came home with a note from the teacher, we traded it for the back of a hand. To me, this was the perfect childhood, but as I got older, the South became a more complicated place.
My best friend got a job as a lifeguard at a country club when he was fifteen - I worked at a video store in midtown. He would come by, and I would give him all the movies he wanted. In exchange, I would go to the pool and swim through the afternoon. On one of these afternoons, a family of members and their guests walked into the club to enjoy the cool water and the setting sun. Within 10 minutes, the manager approached my friend and informed him that he had to ask the guests to leave. Why? Because they were black. I wasn't even a guest, and I hadn't been given a second look when I walked in. My friend quit that instant, and I drove him home.
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