The Sign

We were on a road trip
in a blue station wagon
through the oppressive heat
and the barrage of windshield bugs
of the southern states. 

I played with toy soldiers
in the back where I bounced
around with the luggage. 

Dad saw the rest stop up ahead,
a Howard Johnson’s advertising
24 flavors of ice cream,
so we pulled into the lot. 

I ran ahead to the lobby bathrooms
and started to push through the door
of the men’s room when
a big hand grabbed me by
my collar and yanked me back hard. 

“Not that one, boy,” the man said gruffly.
I looked up thinking I had accidentally
pushed open the women’s room door.
But the sign above the door said, ‘Colored’. 

‘What the heck does that mean?’
I wondered when my Dad walked up and
told the man to take his hand off my collar. 

“Just saving him embarrassment,” the
man said in a tense drawl, to which my
Dad said, “You should be embarrassed.” 

For a moment I stared up at the old
wood sign above the door, all capitals,
green letters, black background, with faded,
badly chipped paint like you’d see on a gate of a
50-year old farmhouse. 

It was the late 1960s and the sign
had a defiant look to it.
I glanced to my right and there was
a black and white photo of Governor
George Wallace on the wall,
looking just as defiant.
“We’re leaving,” my Dad said. 

I remember being afraid of that sign.
I couldn’t get it out of my mind
as we got back in the station wagon
and we drove fifteen miles down the
road to a small restaurant with a mixed crowd. 

I ran into that bathroom faster
than an Olympic sprinter.
But even as I did I understood
what my father had done.
I was very – very – proud of him. 

I was afraid of that sign,
but it helped me to understand
that we should always be afraid of that sign.