“San Leandro has its share of hypocrites like anywhere else. For example, the San Leandro Boys’ Club’s membership is 30 percent black because many blacks find the East Oakland Boys’ Club lacking good facilities. As a result of the increase in black members, many white parents are holding back their financial support of the club. It takes fifty dollars to support the activities of each boy.
“One local merchant who is withholding his financial support told me, ‘I have to sell to them, blacks, but I don’t have to support them.’ That’s outright bigotry.”
—San Leandro mayor Jack Maltester, November 1969
In my quest (and my mother’s) for me to become a “normal, red-blooded, all-American boy,” I joined the Boy Scouts. I enjoyed the club because a lot of it was about goal-setting. The achievement of these goals was measured by the acquisition and accumulation of merit badges. In order to get a merit badge in a particular area, a scout had to complete a set of criteria under the guidance of a counselor certified by the Boy Scouts of America in that specific badge.
After I’d received a dozen or so merit badges in camping, hiking, cooking, first aid, and the like, I set my sights on a badge in fishing. I’d always liked fishing, although I didn’t know much about it and had never actually caught a fish. Sylvester, in a rare moment of fatherly impulse, had taken me out once when I was about six. I recall very little of the trip. I remember sitting in the backseat of a big 1968 Chrysler Imperial, which was packed with his adult male friends; genuine black men. I watched in confusion as they rolled and passed cigarettes between them, back and forth in front of my face. The smoke smelled odd to me, not like cigarette smoke I’d smelled before. I remember giggling hysterically for no apparent reason, getting really hungry, and then waking up hours later in my bedroom. I don’t think I even got to see the water.
I checked with my scoutmaster and got the name of the local fishing counselor. He was the owner of one of the oldest real estate firms in San Leandro, the business having been in the family for generations. I called him, told him what I was hoping to accomplish, and we had a nice conversation. He told me about his commitment to scouting and how he would show me all of the ins and outs of fishing. He’d take me up to Lake Chabot, our local fishing spot, teach me about tackle, how to tie the appropriate knots for various hooks and lures, and the different techniques required for catching different types of fish. I was thrilled. I’d finally get to go fishing!
When he was certain that I’d mastered all of the fundamental techniques and required nuances of the sport, he’d sign my blue card indicating that I’d earned, and was to be awarded, the merit badge. We made an appointment for me to come into his real estate office for an initial meeting and to lay out our plan for achieving the requirements.
“You sound like a bright, well-mannered young man,” he said. “I look forward to meeting you.”
I was in the backseat of the Malibu as Grandma drove toward downtown. Mom sat in the passenger seat going over some papers from her office. She was a secretary for one of the big defense contractors located in San Francisco and she often brought her typing home to do at night and on the weekends. She needed to make copies of some of the documents and there was a place with a copy machine not far from the real estate office where I was meeting the fishing counselor.
“I can’t wait to go fishing,” I said.
“You know I ain’t gonna clean ‘em,” Grandma said. “I’ll cook ’em for you, but you gonna have to clean and scale ’em yourself.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“I’m sure your counselor will teach you,” Mom said without looking up from her papers.
“Yeah, I think it’s one of the requirements for getting the badge.”
We arrived at the real estate office and I got out.
“How long you gonna be?”
“I don’t know, Grandma. He didn’t say. Probably a little while.”
“Okay, we’ll go do what we got to do and then come back and wait in the car. I’ll be parked right here,” she said.
I walked into the outer office. It was small and there were few desks, all of which were occupied. There was the familiar chatter of a work environment. There was also a sudden, familiar silence as I walked in. A white woman behind one of the desks looked startled as I entered.
“May I help you?” she said.
“I’m here to see Mr. Richards.”
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
“The fishing merit badge. My name is Brian Copeland. We talked on the phone. I have an appointment.”
She looked down at an appointment calendar on her desk.
“Just a minute,” she said.
She got up and walked into one of the adjoining offices. A minute later, a tall thin man with graying hair walked out abruptly. He extended his hand and smiled.
“Brian?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Mr. Richards. Did you bring your merit-badge card with you?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it please?”
I took out the blue card and handed it to him. He took the card, pulled out a pen from his vest pocket, put the card on one of the desks, and quickly wrote on it.
“Here you go,” he said, handing the card back to me.
I took the card back. The line that the counselor signs upon completion of the requirements was signed.
“You’re all set,” he said as he put his arm around my shoulder and led me to the door. He said a final, “Good luck to you,” as he ushered me out.
I was in and out in less than five minutes. I stood on the street corner staring at the card in my hand. I didn’t get it. I was pondering the experience as Grandma pulled up in the Malibu. She stopped and I got in.
“Wasn’t he in?” my mother asked.
“Yeah, he was in.”
“That sure was a quick meeting. When are you going fishing?”
“I don’t know. He signed my card to get the badge.”
“He signed your card?” she gasped. “But, you haven’t done anything yet.”
“I know. He signed it and said I was all set.”
There was a silence in the car. A long silence. I could feel my mother fuming. Finally, as always, Grandma broke the impasse.
“He didn’t know you was black.”
My mother looked at her lap.
I wondered if her mind had just taken the same trip back in time that mine had. To Killeen, Texas, just a few short years before. Sylvester was stationed at Ft. Hood and we moved from Akron to join him. When we got to Texas, we stayed on the base in temporary housing while my mom tried to find us a house. I have vivid memories of playing with my Hot Wheels at my mother’s feet while she was on the phone. I could only hear her side of the conversation.
“So it’s four bedrooms? And it’s close to a good school . . . That’s sounds wonderful . . . Yes, I can be there tomorrow . . . Three o’clock at your office? Fine . . . One last thing. My family is black, will that be a prob . . . Oh . . . I see . . . Well, thank you anyway.”
Over and over again. The same conversation, the hopeful, optimistic tone in her voice being suddenly dashed. Her dreams deflating like a tire that’s been punctured by a rusty nail.
“Carolyn sounds like she’s white on the phone,” Grandma later explained. “She went to look at a house there and it got nasty when the folks saw that her skin didn’t match her voice.”
I thought of how, last Christmas, she called the department store and used an English accent when she asked them to increase her credit for the holidays.
“I need more pounds . . . oops . . . I mean dollars, luv!” she had said. She got her extra credit.
I guessed I sounded “white,” too. Did this mean that I had to have the Texas conversation?
“Yes . . . the fishing merit badge sounds fun . . . Sure I can go to the lake . . . I’d love to learn how to bait a hook . . . Monday at five? Sure . . . Oh, by the way, I’m black, is that . . . I see. Thanks anyway.”
With moist eyes, Mom craned her head and peered at me around her seat.
“I’ll take you fishing, honey.”