I was once a Johnny Reb
My parents, born and raised in the tobacco fields of North Carolina, would hang their heads in shame if they knew this story was being shared. In the early 1970s we went to a summer fair on the campus of Rockland Community College, located in the county that has yet to produce a governor of the Empire State.
Was permitted to wander, with a strict time limit. The fair had all the standard highlights. Stands for food, games of chance, the prizes were overstuffed animals, and rides that creaked and whizzed. Walked past a gentleman selling Union blue and Confederate gray hats. Knew little about the Civil War. Had a vague recollection of Abraham Lincoln, the Emancipation Proclamation, and freedom for ancestors who shared my melanin. The choice that day was purely aesthetic. Tried on the rebel hat; the fit was perfect. Union blue was too tight. Gave the man my cash and strutted away in the summer sun, Johnny Reb’s traitor flag cocked to the side.
When I caught up with the parents, they lacked any enthusiasm for the recent purchase.
“Who sold you that,” my father asked.
His tone was familiar. The “you have done something you’re about to regret” voice. Stammered an answer, praying any punishment would not turn into a public spectacle.
“I bet he smiled when he sold him that,” he said.
My mother grabbed my hand.
“Come with me.”
I took her where the transaction happened. She politely asked for a Union replacement and the exchange was (easily) made. The substitute didn’t fit, but knew enough to keep that detail private.
There were no home lessons, or speeches, about the Civil War or why no child of theirs was going to sport the flag of rebellion. They were not raising a budding H.K. Edgerton, a black Confederate activist who earns his silver by calling Federal soldiers rapists. We were Union peoples and that was that.
Unfortunately, this incident did not make me inquisitive about the War Between the States. At the time, I cared more for the kooky adventures of Fred and Barney. However, it did cause distrust for anyone sporting the Confederate symbol. Growing up, when Lynyrd Skynyrd was riding a crest of fame, meant a wary eye was kept on many suburban schoolmates.