The Canadian Record (Canadian, Tex.), Vol. 113, No. 41, Ed. 1 Thursday, October 9, 2003 Page: 2 of 28
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2
THURSDAY 9 OCTOBER 2003
THE CANADIAN RECORD
HID NOTES
?6e (Zawzdim,
RECORD
INCORPORATED FEBRUARY 1998
BEN EZZELL
Editor & Publisher 1948-1993
CJS
NANCY EZZELL Publisher
LAURIE EZZELL BROWN Editor
editor§canadianrecord.com
TONYA FINSTERWALD
Advertising Manger
advertising@canadianrecord.com
CATHY RICKETTS
News & Features
news@canadianrecord.com
JENNY KLEIN, News
news@canadianrecord.com
MARY SMITHEE, Office Manager
circulation@canadianrecord.com
DESIGN & PRODUCTION:
Laurie Ezzell, Tonya Finsterwald,
Kim McKinney
PHOTOGRAPH":
Laurie Ezzell Brown, Cathy Ricketts,
Seth Davidson
USPS 087-960
P.O. Box 898,
Canadian (Hemphill) Texas 79014
Fax#: (806)323-5738
E-mail address: editcr@icanadlanrecord.com
Periodicals postage paid at the Post Office in
Canadian, Texas. Published weekly
in Canadian, Texas, by Nancy M. Ezzell.
POSTMASTER: Send address changes to
The Canadian Record, Box 898,
Canadian, TX 79014
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2003
TEXAS PRESS
ASSOCIATION
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AWARD WINNER 2003
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I HAVE TO ADMIT, it took a moment for the words I had just heard to
register. I felt the sudden gut-rush of anger even before I realized what
had ignited that emotional blowtorch inside of me.
But there it was—hanging in the silence as our customer walked out
the front door—a profanity so unexpected that I was briefly speechless
as it ricocheted through my brain: "Nigger."
About the time the door closed, it finally seared through that gauzy
semi-conscious state that sometimes envelopes me when I am con-
fronted with that which is utterly without reason or humanity or grace.
Then fully alert, I rewound that mental tape, and replayed the con-
versation: a few words swatted back and forth about Saturday's "big
game" against Panhandle, a bit of speculation about the playoffs and
how the competition gets so much tougher the further downstate you
go. That's when he leaned across my desk in an almost intimate way, and
spoke in a ventriloquist's stiff-lipped near-whisper about those "big ol'
buck niggers" some schools have on their teams.:
The rest of The Record staff did not hear him, so quietly were the
words spoken, but ignorance like that leaves behind an odor—like the
slightly sulphurous smell of a match strike or burnt gunpowder. The
curse I uttered as the door latch slid back into place—spoken to the
back that was already turned, to the mind that was already closed—con-
firmed my co-workers' suspicions.
The curse was for him, but the anger that burned through me for the
rest of the day and night was for me—for what I had not said or done. I
did not rise, out of my chair. I did not turn over the desk. I did not tell
him, as I should have and as Woody Guthrie once did, that the war
against fascism starts here. The war that has been fought for decades.
The war that I know now we cannot cease fighting.
No. Instead, I cursed—four aptly descriptive words that rolled out
of my mouth as I watched him walk to his car. I felt edgy and out of synch
for the rest of the day. I lost a night of much-needed sleep. I began the
next day feeling bruised and battered down to my very soul.
I guess my friend Seth didn't realize that I was a walking toxic waste-
land when he came by the office yesterday. Surely if he had, he would
have avoided any proximity. Instead, completely unbidden, he told me a
story Pete Seeger had shared with him this weekend when he per-
formed during Pampa's Tribute to Woody Guthrie,
Seeger recalled a time just after the attack on Pearl Harbor that he
and Woody Guthrie and Sonny Terry performed for an elite New York
City audience which included members of the Rockefeller family. After
the performance, Woody and Pete were invited to join the Rockefeller
table for dinner. The two black musicians who had performed alongside
them were pointedly excluded from the imitation.
Woody asked about his fellow musicians, and one of the Rockefeller's
answered indignantly: "They can't sit at this table."
At which point, Woody reached down and turned over the entire
white linen-clad table, elaborate place settings and all. Not content with
that, he turned over the table next to it as well, and announced to those
present: "The war against fascism starts here."
That's what I wish I had done Tuesday when I heard those hated
words spoken. I didn't then, but I'm doing it now. Consider the table
overturned, and the line against racism and fascism and all manner of
mean talking and mean thinking re-drawn right here.
Lyrics as performed by Woody Guthrie on "Poor Boy" (Folk-
ways/Transatlantic Records XTRA 1065, 1968), transcribed by
Manfred Helfert.
I'm- the meanest man. that ever had a brain,
All I scatter is aches and painsi
I'in carbolic acid wd a poison face,
And I stand flat-footed in favor of crime and disgrace.
If I ever done a good deed — I'm sorry of it.
I'iu int'ihi m the East, wean in the West,
Mean to the people that I like the best.
I go around a-caitsin' lot of accidents,
And I push folks down, and I cause tminwrecks.
I'm a big disaster —just goirisonwwhere's to happen.
I 'm an organized famine—study in how I can be a little bit meaner.
I'm still a whole lot too good to suit myself—just m&m...
I ride around on the subway tmim,
Lmighin' at the tight shoes'tie aim'you pain:
And I laugh when the car shakes from side to side,
I laugh my loiidest when other'people cry.
Can't help it — I was born good, Igmss>
Just like you or anybody else —
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Brown, Laurie Ezzell. The Canadian Record (Canadian, Tex.), Vol. 113, No. 41, Ed. 1 Thursday, October 9, 2003, newspaper, October 9, 2003; Canadian, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth220599/m1/2/: accessed April 30, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Hemphill County Library.