Childhood Lessons on Solidarity

I’m from Benton Harbor, MI, a predominantly Black town in the Southwest region of the state's lower peninsula. I was actually born in St. Joseph, just across the river that conveniently separated the two towns creating a physical city-line. Benton Harbor is a residential and somewhat rural town, barely 4.5 square miles in size. St. Joe, as we call it, is a segregated white suburb where the only good hospital was located.

Although our family lived in Michigan, we carry deep Southern roots by way of the Black migration of the 1940’s and 1950’s. As a result, my childhood was rooted in very southern values/traditions like family, faith, food, music and such.

A very country family in many ways, religion was a central part of how we spent much of our time. What felt like almost every Sunday, we gathered together for dinner. My dad’s parents only lived about five minutes from us by car. All of the siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles would come together there.

Anytime we drove to my grandparents', we passed by one of my elementary schools. Good Shepherd Lutheran School was an unconventional institution, where there were only two teachers and two multi-grade classrooms: one for grades 1-5 and another for middle and high school students. Each class had no more than 10 students.

Our teacher, whose name I’ve since forgotten, would rotate around our classroom, instructing one or two students at the same time who were on or near the same grade level. Once a week we attended service down the hall from our classroom. We’d line up on the white linoleum floors, in the school lobby encased by floor to ceiling glass windows, before uniformly walking into the drafty, echoing chapel. The wooden pews creaked beneath the weight of our bodies, their crunchy wine-colored cushions worn thin over time.

As my legs dangled from the bench, I often swung them absentmindedly, unintentionally kicking the hymnals sitting in the wooden holders in front of me. Each service we opened with prayer, sang hymns, prayed again, read scriptures, and some even took communion. I thought it was absolutely ridiculous that everyone drank from the same golden goblet.

After the benediction, we ate lunch at long wooden folding tables outside the sanctuary. Earlier in the week, our class received permission to organize a kickball game. I volunteered  as team captain (I think it was my birthday lol). Our teacher agreed. I already had the perfect team planned out. Consciously, I was plotting to beat the team I chose not to pick. Anna, a thin redhead girl with freckles, was named my opposing captain.

We grabbed our jackets and ran outside to the open field. Our entire class, a meager 9 students, formed a scraggly horizontal line awaiting the draft. I raised my hand and proposed a twist to the game. “Can I pick the whole team at the same time?” Our teacher hesitated before nodding. “Alright, y’all let’s go!” I shouted.

In unison, the three other three Black students in our class came to stand by my side. I only remember my friend Cameron because I ended up giving my younger brother that name(instead of Little Foot that I was very serious about). We secretly discussed being on the same team during lunch and were determined to win the game at any cost. The remaining students, who were white, stood there confused and our teacher, visibly uncomfortable, reluctantly asked, “Would you like to pitch or kick first?” With a sly, cocky smirk, I ran to the pitcher’s mound. “They can kick first!”

I designated myself as our team’s pitcher. The first batter stepped up to the plate. I served them three fast pitches back to back, resulting in two fouls and a strike. First out. Their next kicker boldly took her place at home base. After being asked to slow down the pitch speed, they managed to make contact. Running as fast as they could to first base, one of our teammates threw the ball right in the middle of their back, tagging the sprinter. Two outs. Now it was Anna’s turn. She stood at the plate, meeting my gaze, determined to change the course of that inning.

I served one right down the middle. She kicked hard, and the ball swerved far right. Foul. I saw the nervous look on her face and could tell the pressure was eating away at her from the inside out. I rolled another ball right in front of her. She kicked with what looked like all the strength her foot could muster. The ball flew through the air, straight at me on the pitchers mound, directly into my hands. Three outs. “Alright let’s do this y’all” I called out, racing my teammates to the kicking line.

We kicked and scored, racking up points on the other team that was relegated to the outfield for the rest of recess. I don’t remember the final score, but I do remember the teacher pulling me aside after the game. She said, “We are never picking teams like again.” That was my last year at Good Shepherd.

Historically, there's been a concerted effort to keep us divided, but the mere impulse to defy the odds is profound. On the surface, it was a trivial recess game, but I’m truly fascinated by the curiosity I had surrounding Black solidarity at that young age. Deep down I felt that unity, teamwork, community, even in something as mundane as kickball, could lead to undeniable victory.

Creating our own rules, and combining our talents and skills, we became a supportive unit and won that game by actively choosing each other. I wholeheartedly believe that when Black folks manage to come together around a common goal, anything is possible, including our sovereignty.