Hello, I'm back. The reason I've not updated this is simply because I'm, well, a bit stupid: I'd been using the wrong login (gmail sign-in, instead of my Yahoo account), which means I couldn't post anything I finally tried logging in using my Yahoo! account, and -- voila! -- it worked. Duh! So, here goes. I intend to post a few stories that I'd written for a friend's newsletter (and a book for our grandchildren) on "Why Africa?" -- why I love Africa so much and how that love came about. And, today, I'm posting a story I wrote 10 years ago for the Virginian-Pilot (the best newspaper in Virginia, based in Norfolk, Va., where I grew up.) I've written several essays for the V-P, but today's entry -- "In Search of Earl" -- is important because I found Earl! Enjoy!
The Virginian-Pilot, May 18, 2013
By Malcolm Gibson
In my retirement, which comes May 31 — 11
days shy of my 70th birthday — I have a big "to-do" list.
As a journalist, I have abundant writing
projects and prospects. And one of the first is to write about a search for
people, most from my time spent in Norfolk, who've made a big difference in my
life at various points.
There's Camille Clancy, my first real love.
And Frank Burroughs of the paper truck. And George Poy, whose folks owned a
Chinese restaurant next to the Rosalee Theater in Ocean View. And Mitch Pierce,
my bowling buddy who had lost part of a finger in a misdirected blow from a
hatchet. And Dorothy Carpenter, another "first love." And Dorothy
Gaudry, who encouraged me to skip school at Granby High one day. (While her
encouragement was successful, my effort was not; I was caught and suspended.)
And Dickie Gatewood. And Marsha Herman. And Joe Brenner. And many more.
However, the search must begin with Earl.
The search begins with Earl because —
unknowingly to him and, even, to me until well into my adulthood — he played a
role that fueled many of my life's interests, including the career I chose and
how I pursued it. Much of my time has been spent chronicling the human
condition in places near and far, with a hope for all people to be treated as
they themselves would like to be treated.
I haven't a clue as to Earl's last name,
which adds to both the mystery and difficulty of the search. Adding to that is
this challenge: I haven't seen Earl for more than 60 years. The last time was
shortly before my family and I returned to Norfolk after spending one year
(1950-51) at the Naval base in Coronado, Calif., where Earl and I were in
second grade.
On my first day at the school there, Earl
and I had scrapped, gathering more dust and dirt than landing blows. It was a
friendly scuffle, so, of course, we became fast friends. "Forever," I
recall us saying.
On that day or one soon after, I brought
Earl home to play. We marched into the house and settled down in my bedroom,
doing this and that, including sharing my dad's prized Hohner harmonica.
It wasn't until I was in my mid-40s that I
learned that my parents had had a long discussion that evening, after Earl had
departed and I was asleep, about whether they would allow Earl and me to
continue our friendship.
Earl was black. It was a time when much of
the Navy was still segregated. California bases and housing were not; Norfolk,
Merrimack Park and the city's schools were. And my parents — a step-dad from
strongly segregated West Virginia and a mom from self-imposed segregated
Massachusetts — didn't know what to make of my newfound friend.
So they talked, and then, after much agony,
came to a decision: We're going to let Malcolm make that decision for himself.
When they finally told me that story so many
years later, I could say nothing but "thanks" and smile, reactions
that fell far short of my volcanic pride for those two great people and the
ultimate effect that decision likely has had on my life.
As for Earl, I'd like to find him. And I
will try. I remember asking Earl's mother one day: "How do you tell when
he gets dirty?" "He gets white," she calmly replied to that
extraordinarily naïve but sincere 7-year-old. I often wonder whether his folks
had had the same conversation, the same struggle, that my folks had had during
that time. I often wonder what he's done and where he's gone and where his life
has taken him. I often wonder if he, too, has thought of me as often as I have
thought of him. And I wonder if he knows how much of an effect he had on my
parents. And on me.
-30-
Postscript 1 (03/03/2023): I have been in contact with Earl though his brother, Carl, who has been most helpful. I found Earl through Ancestry.com. I simply put "Earl" and "Coronado" in the search field, and up popped one item: the 1950 census for Coronado. The page that popped up on my screen had an Earl F. Mitchell, father, his wife and four children. And there was Earl -- Earl F. Mitchell Jr. We have plans of going to San Diego soon so I can offer my thanks -- for all he has meant to me and my parents -- in person. Stay tuned. I will update.
Postscript 2: I've also reconnected with George Poy, a dear friend from the 5th grade, whose parents owned the Chinese restaurant in Ocean View, not far from Ocean View Elementary and across the street from the huge roller coaster on the beach. We plan to meet -- over Ethiopian food (our favorite cuisine that he's never had, but is looking forward to) in Washington, D.C., in January when we visit. Stay tuned. I will update.
