Getting a break . . .

The following is an excerpt from "Life is not just Black and White," an autobiography written by Raymond Randle, Jr.

Getting a break . . .

“How are you feeling today,” she asked.

“How do you expect me to feel? I’m laying here with my arm saluting you and all you can do is ask me stupid questions.”

The nurse turned around and walked out of the room. I was tough. I did not need any dumb nurse feeling sorry for me.

Most of the hospital staff, after their first encounter with me, avoided me unless it was necessary.

My doctor, Doctor Roth, had been nice to me, so I was nice to her. She was the one who argued that they should put me in traction to set the bone rather than cut me open like the other doctor wanted.

I had a lot of time to think about getting Oscar to fight me. He did not want to mess with me and I kept prodding him to fight. I also had time to think how he threw me and I landed on my shoulder. I remembered the “pop” I heard and the sharp pain I felt.

It was one of those days of thinking, when a student nurse came in. Her nametag read “Judy Edenberg.” She had brown hair, blue eyes, and some of the whitest skin I had ever seen.

“What is wrong with you,” she asked.

“Are you blind or just stupid? I’m in traction,” I quickly snapped back to her.

“I am neither blind NOR stupid,” came her answer. “I am asking what is wrong with you. Why are you acting the way you do? People in this hospital are good people and they are here to help – and not take a lot of crap from some kid.

“People are here to help you and all you do is give them a hard time. There is no one here who wants to cause you any harm or problems. Do YOU understand - or are YOU blind or stupid?”

I had time to run her question repeatedly in my mind after she walked out the door. With so much time, I thought about what she said. She was right. Those people meant me no harm. They WERE trying to help me.

The next time Judy came in, I apologized to her. She talked to me as she worked and did the routine things nurses do. As she was leaving I apologized again.

I looked forward to her coming back. She talked to me as if I was older, as if I was an adult. No one had done that before, except for my family. I soon awaited her visits.

She talked about her life and her philosophy. I even had to borrow a dictionary to look up the word “philosophy” so I could at least halfway understand what she was saying.

When she was gone, I went over each conversation in my mind.

Every time Judy came in and talked to me a new day seemed to dawn. Each time it was fresh and new and I wanted to experience more days like this.

Judy taught me to think, really think. Judy said many of the things my mother had said to me when I was younger, but they seemed to make more sense coming from Judy than they did when my mother said them.

I must have had my eyes closed and had been smiling at the things Judy talked about as I did not hear Judy enter the room.

“You look like your enjoying yourself,” she said.

I was glad she could not read minds or know what I was thinking.

I had not had any previous encounters with any white people other than Skippy.

Skippy was my age and lived about a block and a half away from us in our neighborhood. Skippy did have white skin but he was black. His thoughts and philosophy was of a black person because of where he lived and grew up. His family was Italian and they had refused to leave the area as the area became more and more “black” in scope.

White or black, it didn’t matter; I was learning to look at someone else’s ideas and schools of thought other than my own. I began to evaluate what was important to me. Beating up on others was starting to change to a whole other way of life.

I knew I could defend myself, and Judy’s conversations taught me a different way of thinking and way of being. I was slowly realizing I was not the center of the universe.

I was also slowly starting to learn there were other ways for adventure other than through physical confrontations or disputes. Challenges could be to better myself -- and why shouldn’t I better myself?

. . .