Saturday, May 20, 2006
There Must Be Some Mistake!
While driving down to Valdez, I developed a bit of a headache to accompany a frightful backache, so we decided to stop off at the Princess Lodge at Copper Center. However, there was a slight problem. They were not officially open. But since we did not look like official types, they gave us a room anyway. It is a bit strange to be the only guests in a lodge or hotel although there may have been other guests who did not look official either.
It was not the first time I was the only occupant of a large housing unit. Back in 1964, Luzette Cherry and I were selected to represent Southern State College at a regional political science conference on international affairs at Southern Methodist University. We were to be housed in university dorms (they had not yet become residence halls). When I walked up to the desk to register, the clerk took one look at me and then looked back down at her list and uttered a single expression; “There must be some mistake!” I had no inkling of any kind of mistake. She handed me a key and gave me a room number and sent me down the hall. After a while I became conscious of an ominous quiet. Dorms were never noted for being quiet. I could not detect the presence of a single floor mate. I eventually figured out that I was the only occupant on the whole floor. That night at dinner I compared notes with Luzette. She had the same experience as I had. She was the only female on her floor. Then it hit us like a ton of bricks. We both suddenly realized what the “mistake” was. Someone had confused “Southern” State with “Southern” University in New Orleans. We were both segregated on our respective floors.
It was not the only time I was to be mistaken for an African-American. Back in the early eighties I was visiting Seattle with my wife. We stayed at her parent’s house on Mercer Island. They had gone out and left the two of us alone. Suddenly the phone rang and Rosalie asked me to answer it. Big mistake! A voice on the other end asked if this were the residence of Harold Brown. I assured him it was. He then informed me that he knew there was a party at our house and would I would be so kind as to give him the address and directions to the house. I assured him that there was to be no party at the house that night. He did not believe me. Now, I can drawl and twang like the best southerner that you ever heard. Now that was my misdoing. The voice on the other end then identified himself as Jack Sikma, the center for the Seattle Supersonics. He knew for a fact that “Downtown” Freddie Brown was throwing a party for the Supersonics at his father’s house. His father’s name was Harold Brown—the same as my father-in-law. The tonal qualities of my voice assured him that he had the right phone number and the right person on the line. I just was not being co-operative. He then said something to the effect of like father, like son. We argued for quite a while about whether there was a party or not. Then a solution to the conflict came to mind. I asked Jack if he would like to speak to Harold Brown’s daughter. “Yes,” he said, overjoyed that he would soon be making his way to the party. Rosalie and he talked for good fifteen minutes. Her tonal qualities soon convinced him that he had made a mistake. This was the wrong Harold Brown after all. He never made it to the party. Oh, we did offer to let him come by the house and see for himself.
While driving down to Valdez, I developed a bit of a headache to accompany a frightful backache, so we decided to stop off at the Princess Lodge at Copper Center. However, there was a slight problem. They were not officially open. But since we did not look like official types, they gave us a room anyway. It is a bit strange to be the only guests in a lodge or hotel although there may have been other guests who did not look official either.
It was not the first time I was the only occupant of a large housing unit. Back in 1964, Luzette Cherry and I were selected to represent Southern State College at a regional political science conference on international affairs at Southern Methodist University. We were to be housed in university dorms (they had not yet become residence halls). When I walked up to the desk to register, the clerk took one look at me and then looked back down at her list and uttered a single expression; “There must be some mistake!” I had no inkling of any kind of mistake. She handed me a key and gave me a room number and sent me down the hall. After a while I became conscious of an ominous quiet. Dorms were never noted for being quiet. I could not detect the presence of a single floor mate. I eventually figured out that I was the only occupant on the whole floor. That night at dinner I compared notes with Luzette. She had the same experience as I had. She was the only female on her floor. Then it hit us like a ton of bricks. We both suddenly realized what the “mistake” was. Someone had confused “Southern” State with “Southern” University in New Orleans. We were both segregated on our respective floors.
It was not the only time I was to be mistaken for an African-American. Back in the early eighties I was visiting Seattle with my wife. We stayed at her parent’s house on Mercer Island. They had gone out and left the two of us alone. Suddenly the phone rang and Rosalie asked me to answer it. Big mistake! A voice on the other end asked if this were the residence of Harold Brown. I assured him it was. He then informed me that he knew there was a party at our house and would I would be so kind as to give him the address and directions to the house. I assured him that there was to be no party at the house that night. He did not believe me. Now, I can drawl and twang like the best southerner that you ever heard. Now that was my misdoing. The voice on the other end then identified himself as Jack Sikma, the center for the Seattle Supersonics. He knew for a fact that “Downtown” Freddie Brown was throwing a party for the Supersonics at his father’s house. His father’s name was Harold Brown—the same as my father-in-law. The tonal qualities of my voice assured him that he had the right phone number and the right person on the line. I just was not being co-operative. He then said something to the effect of like father, like son. We argued for quite a while about whether there was a party or not. Then a solution to the conflict came to mind. I asked Jack if he would like to speak to Harold Brown’s daughter. “Yes,” he said, overjoyed that he would soon be making his way to the party. Rosalie and he talked for good fifteen minutes. Her tonal qualities soon convinced him that he had made a mistake. This was the wrong Harold Brown after all. He never made it to the party. Oh, we did offer to let him come by the house and see for himself.
