Sticks and Stones May Break Your Bones, But The Truth Shall Set You Free
Louise Annarino
April 11, 2012
At 5 I was allowed to ride my new Huffy bicycle on the sidewalk in front of our house, back and forth between the alley and the corner; and walk down the alley with my wagon.
At 6 I was allowed to play on the sidewalk in front of our house, crossing the alley, from one corner to the other corner.
At 7 I was allowed to go around the nearest corner, to the farther alley beyond Van’s market, and back to the house.
At 8 I was allowed to go around the corner and across the street to the Hartzler Public School playground, and push my 3 year old brother Michael on the swings. Or so I thought.
On a hot summer day, I took Michael to the playground for a swing. I noticed 6 or 7 slightly older children near the merry-go-round as I picked him up and set him in the swing. They were just hanging out, as kids do. I recognized most of them.
A girl who lived down the block yelled to me, “Get outta here. you don’t go to this school.” Her comment broke the boredom of a summer day for the other kids.
One of the boys asked,”Where does she go?” as the group headed our way.
Another answered, “She’s one of those Annarinos”.
“Oh, a dirty WOP,” laughed another boy as the entire group of boys guffawed and punched one another in the arm. The girls giggled. I moved to the front of the swing to block Michael, and gently slowed my pushes while soothing him with soft words.
One freckle-faced girl in pig-tails stopped beside me, her feet spread with her hands on hips, and taunted, “ We don’l let Eyetalians on our playground”; then, spit at my feet.
The group closed in.Their aggressive laughter, taunts and physically intimidating stance had frightened Michael who began to cry. As I turned to lift him from the swing and into my arms, the first volley of rocks hit the back of my head, shoulders, and legs. I tried to block the rocks with my body as I carried Michael away, but we both were being stoned mercilessly. In those days, kids were tougher and played on rocky playgrounds, not on mulch-surfaced play areas. With plenty of ammunition available, they chased us and pelted us to the curb. They screamed at us, “Go away. No fish eaters allowed. If we ever see you again, we’ll kill you! You’re nothing but dirt, you and your WOP brother.”
I did not know what a WOP was. I did not know what a fish-eater was. But I knew the word “dirty”. It was usually followed by “Dago” or “N…..”. I sensed this was the same kind of biased hate. The words and the rocks hurt. But, they also made me angry because they made my baby brother cry, and I could not protect him.
The group did not follow us across the street. I carried Michael home to my mother, Angela. I explained what had happened as I placed Michael in her arms. She examined our scratches, and the lump growing over my eye from a particularly large rock. Cleaning up, icing bruises and lumps, and bandaging cuts meant nothing. My anger meant everything. How could these children be so mean to Michael, who was so helpless? I knew kids could be mean, but to a baby? Why did they care that we were using the public school playground? What did the words WOP and fish-eater mean? How did such words make it okay for them to attack us? How could I have protected Michael? By the time Dad got to the playground after Mom called him home from his restaurant, it was empty.
I listened to Mom’s explanation of Wop and fish-eater, and the accepted dislike for Italians and other racial or ethnic groups. “That’s the way the American people are,” she explained. “That’s the way the American people are” was a constant explanation for incomprehensible behavior as I was growing up. I found white Americans very confusing, until Mom explained their thought processes, biases, prejudices and racism to me. Every discussion ended with “That’s the way the American people are.” This time she added, “Always remember this: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never harm me. Never listen to the names people call you. You are the only one who can hurt you.” I stopped listening after shouting at my own wise mother, “Words do hurt! They do harm!” It took many more years to understand the message she intended to impart with her words.
The front doorway into our elementary school was massive; the double-wide doors encased in blocks of limestone. Messages had been carved in each side of the limestone lintel overhead. On the left side were the words “Knowledge Is Power”; and on the right, “Ye Shall Know The Truth and The Truth Shall Set You Free.” Our class lined up two-by-two behind the convent every morning and again after lunch, then Sister led us into the school. Each day, during the pause while two of the boys opened the doors wide so our class could enter, I read those comments carved in stone. They became my motivation to understand what my mother and father, and the nuns and priests tried to teach me. I wanted to understand what words really meant,how knowing words would set me free and give me the power to change “the way the American people are.”
In high school, swastikas and “fish-eaters” routinely graced the outside walls of our high-school gymnasium. I learned about water hoses, Jim-Crow words like “colored fountain”, …and much worse. I read the DIARY OF ANNE FRANK and learned about yellow stars of David, words like “crystallnacht” …and much worse. Anne Frank taught me that every word had two meanings, the inner meaning and the outer meaning.
In college I learned how this duality of meaning could be used to obfuscate and confuse. MAO’S RED BOOK and 1984 taught me how words’ many meanings are used to create propaganda. It is not only mean and nasty words that damage and destroy; even kind and gentle words can if their outer meaning is code for the inner meaning of how to harm. And a lie becomes truth simply by repeating the words over and over.
I have listened to propaganda and hate speech all my life it seems. I have seen the confusion, misunderstanding, and harm and such words cause. They even cause death:
Irresponsible mortgage holders or responsible homeowners?
Union thugs or organized laborers?
Welfare Queens or struggling single Moms?
Radical revolutionaries or progressive thinkers?
Propaganda or “spin”?
Truth or talking points?
Residents of the prison or inmates?
War Between the States or a Civil War?
Contented slaves or people suffering human bondage?
Wealthy job creators or greedy pirates of industry?
Save social security or privatize and underfund it to an early demise?
Bail out banks and auto-industry or save the world from a severe Depression?
Attack business or reasonably regulate business to avoid another world-wide economic collapse?
Attack religion or enact “The Sermon On The Mount”?
Reverse racism or affirmative action?
Black thug in a hoodie or typical teenager?
Dr. Frank Hale Jr. was a wonderful man, my friend, a distinguished scholar and civil rights leader. Hale Cultural Center at OSU is named in his honor. This past week, someone scrawled “hate speech” on the wall of this center for African-American cultural appreciation and racial understanding when they painted on the words “Long Live George Zimmerman”. George Zimmerman had been using a photograph of this wall on his legal-fund support web-site. It was removed just hours ago. Let me use words clearly: The white man who shot and killed an un-armed African-American teenager used this image, of words whose inner meaning appealed to racists (making a hero of a white man who killed a Black child) to raise funds for his legal defense fund. Ironically, after many weeks he remains free, possibly armed with the murder weapon, and has not been charged with a crime. This scenario speaks volumes.
This scenario has resurrected the pain over Dr. Hale’s death; as if George Zimmerman had not only desecrated Trayvon Martin’s life, but also the life and honor of Dr. Hale. The pain of words can hurt with the pain of a bullet. Words kill the soul while taking a life. For, what Mom was trying to tell me that day is that George Zimmerman’s words kills his soul as he uses words to justify taking a life. Words cannot harm my soul, nor that of Dr. Hale or Trayvon Martin, though the sticks and stones of the speakers may break our bones. However, they will harm the soul of those who use words to hold others in bondage rather than to set each of us free. They will harm those who lie to enrich and empower themselves rather than seek truth to enrich and empower us all.
We have heard many lies during past political campaigns. But, this is worse. Propaganda is now a spectator sport thanks to 24/7 cable news. And too few children are being taught to appreciate words such as those I read at my school door. Instead we are teaching them to appreciate the best “spin”, the sexiest image, a talking point that “sticks”. We admire pundits who can “hit” the other side “hard”. Despite the many hours we devote to political discussion, very few truth seekers can hold our short attention spans, entice advertisers, or keep their jobs. So, our political commentators settle for less than true, kind of true, half-truths, and interesting lies…and call it today’s news. And our politicians tell us our freedom is threatened by President Obama’s Black Panther associations, Muslim faith, fake birth certificate, socialist economic plan, secret agenda, apologist foreign policy etc. No, it is threatened by those politicians unwillingness to “seek the truth”, speak the truth, and accept the power of an African-American president. It is not our president who threatens freedom, but those who unfairly attack him with words that fail the truth test.
I want Dr. Hale to be remembered for his grace; not the dis-graceful words visited upon the Hale cultural Center. Dr. Hale’s truth is stronger than hate and lies. Dr. Frank Hale, Jr. was inducted into the Ohio Civil Rights Hall Of Fame. I wrote the following poem in his honor to celebrate that occasion. My Reflection of Dr. Hale at his funeral service follows the poem.
Dr. Frank Hale
Ball Player Extraordinaire
Louise Annarino
Barefoot
you stepped up to the plate
eager to test your strength;
your aim,
your best effort
to simply hit the ball
and get to first base.
Frank, you did it all.
You can stand tall
and stretch
to see how far
that first ball
flew
when it met your bat.
Every day
ball after ball
you pushed your luck
and learned all you should
about what could
push the ball
off the would into space.
You are a man of grace.
It is written all over
your face,
and in the mind
and heart
of each of us to whom
you gave a start.
You taught us how to play
the game,
then let us rest and foment
while we struggled
to face the next inning.
Pushing and shoving
ball against wind.
All the time hoping
and praying
and trusting the umps
to be fair;
too often, not.
Yet, we kept on playing
off all that you taught.
It was a hard game to play;
though your skills won the day.
We soon understood it
must be won anew every day,
pushing wood against air to get a single hit.
Doubles, triples and home runs
all too rare.
You have been our captain,our coach,
and our spiritual guide
sliding your pride into stolen bases
for all races.
It is only right that your name will remain
in the Ohio Civil Rights
Hall of Fame.
REFLECTIONS OF DR. FRANK HALE, JR.
by Louise Annarino
August 7, 2011
It is not Frank Hale, Jr.’s death which brings us together today, but his life. Frank was quite simply…a good man. To many of us Frank was also a hero…a role model…a mentor…and a kindred spirit.
How did such a kind and gentle man inspire and elevate us to be more and do more than we thought possible?
-By CHALLENGING the status quo
-By CALLING OUT racist ideologues.
-By NAMING racism in its most minute practices, and in its grandest schemes.
-By REDEFINING and RESTRUCTURING racist practices and procedures of institutions of higher education, and within other corporate settings.
-By STANDING FIRM against injustice and oppression of African Americans, and all who suffer oppression.
-By REFUSING TO BEND moral and ethical codes of civil conduct to simply satisfy base emotions.
We each have stories to tell about Frank. But I challenge us to do more than reflect ON the life of Dr. Frank Hale, Jr. I challenge us each to BE his reflection in each of our communities.
Whenever WE challenge authority which enforces institutional racism in our schools, our workplaces, our boardrooms, our banks and investment houses, even in our own homes and houses of worship – we are a reflection of Frank.
Whenever WE refuse to laugh at a racist or bigoted joke, and instead use it as a teachable moment to stop bigotry -we are a reflection of Frank.
Whenever WE refuse to become uncivil despite racist provocation, and instead respectfully command the respect of others to listen to truth and become more just – we are a reflection of Frank.
Whenever WE hold tight to the courage to tell uncomfortable truths at the risk of losing social acceptance amid the mighty and monied – we are a reflection of Frank.
Whenever WE focus our “eyes on the prize” instead of on material gain – we are a reflection of Frank.
Whenever WE lift our voices in an oratory against injustice – we are a reflection of Frank.
Today, I challenge each of us to BE a reflection of Dr. Frank Hale, Jr. We could do no better to honor Frank. Frank’s spirit will always be within us; and, through us, Frank’s spirit will continue to make this a better world.
Thank you, dearest Mignon, for asking me to reflect today upon my loving friend, Dr. Frank Hale, Jr.
annarino writes 
MARRY UP GIRLS!
MARRY UP GIRLS!
Louise Annarino
April 15, 2012
In high school, every girl knew where to hang out to attract boys. Parents like mine made certain I was not among those girls. Such was the protective net flung over my head. It was a comfort. It allowed me time to seriously assess what my role in life would be without a man to influence my decisions; and what role men would have in that life. My focus was on education, career and independence. Motherhood and marriage seemed a given, and to be delayed until I could be self-sufficient. Only then, could I make the future secure for myself and some future family.
I deliberately wrote motherhood before marriage in the above sentence. Too many of those young women allowed to hang out with boys, became mothers first and married in haste after. A total loss of freedom and self-sufficiency, only one piece of the price they paid. The cost seemed too high then, and life has shown me it still is thus.
I had imagined university to be different. I expected it to be a community of scholars, where men and women were equals. It was not. Despite living in a coed dorm, rules differed for men and women. Women, but not men, were restricted to their floors after midnight, and had to be in dorm by that time. No late-night runs for pizza. Not even a chance to meet the pizza guy in the lobby to accept delivery. If a women left the dormitory in the evening, she had to write where she was going, with whom, a contact phone number, and expected time of return. The men were treated as adults; women were not.
I wrote a Declaration of Independence for the Women of Lincoln Tower. A group of us detached the sign-out books from the lobby counter, carried them outside and burned them in a bonfire for freedom. Today, we would be arrested. In the 60’s, we had a stern dressing-down from the Dean of Women and the Dean of Men.
It was unlikely that the books could be reordered and delivered before the year was out, so the sign-out system was suspended for the remainder of the year, and never reinstated. While all women students cheered this stand for our freedom, it did not truly reflect the underlying motivation of each woman.Too many were at university simply to find a well-educated husband who could support them. Too many had no interest in maintaining freedom through self-sufficiency. Too many were willing to sublimate their own identity as free women for the ease of being cared for by another.
As graduation approached these women panicked. “The best opportunity to find a rich husband is now! What will I do if I leave here and I am not engaged?” was an increasingly desperate question for them, and for their mothers, whose phone calls became more frequent. This was a new phenomenon to me. My Mother’s instructions were to get as much education as I could so I would never need to depend upon anyone; theirs was to find a rich husband so they would always have someone else to depend upon. This differing world view may explain a current quandary of mine.
That quandary is why any woman would vote for a Republican. But, I think I see how they could. They are the women I knew at university who believe a man will take care of them. Democratic women are those, like myself, who stand independently on their own feet, believe self-reliance brings true freedom, and form relationships with the men in their lives which are free and among equals. Perhaps, I cannot really know, Republican women are simply those women satisfied to be taken care of by a man. To each her own.
It is a free woman who decries anyone’s efforts to replace her decision-making with their own, be they a husband, bishop or a politician. It is a free woman who insists on joint discussion and decision making with her spouse, be their agreement or disagreement. Only when women are free to be themselves, are they free to love and free to share their lives with another. And all women Democratic or Republican seek freedom, even those who avoid expressing it in their relationships with the men in their lives. Even those who listened to their mothers and married up for financial security.
It is ironic that the very women willing to rely on men to take care of them, vote for men who say government has no, or very limited, role in taking care of the poor, the elderly, our health, our job security, our environment. Those men they trust to care for them, cannot be trusted to care for us. They promise to end ObamaCare.They promise to close the Departments of Education, Environment, Labor, Health and Human Services. They get very confused over which agencies exist and whether they should be closed, but they know they must be gone! They oppose Affirmative Action, an effort to assure African-Americans, and all people of color can stand on their own, and be independent of white largesse oblige.
And these are good men. These are men who take care of their women and children, and believe they deserve respect and loyalty for so doing, for their largesse oblige. They fail to see what is right before their eyes: women and children and people of color who are their equals. By caring for them they deserve no special rank, nor praise. We are all equals, we men and women and children of every color and nationality. We are in this together. We care for one another. We are our government. Our government is us. That is what it means to live in a democratic republic. Of course government will care for us, since we care for one another as equals entitled to the same opportunity for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
When we Democratic women challenge Republican men, Republican women will of course defend them upon whom the fortunes of their families rely. But, even Republican women now understand that such a paternalistic relationship can go and has gone, too far. Olympia Snowe(R) ME and Susan Collins (R)ME have supported President Obama’s efforts to assure insurance carriers provide women contraception coverage. “The women,” says Maria Cantwell, “are mad.” … you don’t feel this is an attack, you need to go home and talk to your wife and your daughters.”1 And Republican women are also speaking out, asking for support for their own contraceptive needs.2 We may be Democratic women. We may be Republican women. We are all sisters. It is time for women to take a second look at the men who would rule our lives. Ask Michelle Obama. She who is an equal among equals, one of us.
1. www.oregonlive.com › David Sarasohn › Columns
Apr 7, 2012 – “The women,” says Maria Cantwell, “are mad.” … you don’t feel this is an attack, you need to go home and talk to your wife and your daughters.”
2. http://julietjeske.wordpress.com/2012/04/12/on-birth-control-a-plea-to-republican-women/
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