Rodney, the Drinking Fountain, and the Little White Racist: How I Learned to Fear Black People
I don’t know that I have ever told this story to anyone, other than my wife, but there are a handful of people around my age who may remember it well.
I don’t know that I have ever told this story to anyone, other than my wife, but there are a handful of people around my age who may remember it well.
Following is a story about my six-year journey as a drummer in a death metal band you’ve probably never heard of whose collection of recordings is being republished by a record company you also probably haven’t heard of—26 years after we called it quits.
Every once in a while this story resurfaces in conversation. It’s pretty cool, so I thought I would go ahead and write it down for posterity.
This is “Mrs. Smith.” She no longer goes by that name, but that’s what I called her when she was my World Literature teacher during my senior year of high school. I enjoyed coffee and conversation with her on the morning this photo was taken, after a series of interesting events. I want to share this story as a way to help us paint a picture of teachers that doesn’t include arming them for battle in schools. Because gun control isn’t just about the people pulling the triggers.