Denver Post reporter John Henderson wrote an article on the Wyoming Black 14 this past Sunday and it dislodged memories for me that had been dormant for over 40 years.
In October 1969, I was a 17-year-old sophomore at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. I arrived in the US as a very young 16-year-old to learn a new culture, meet new friends and obtain a valuable education. Amidst the flag-burning doves and the flag-waving hawks, I watched the tussle of the extremes every night on the TV news, glad to be a foreigner who could witness history being made every day. Little did I know that I would be forever changed by the events of one polarizing week in Laramie, far from the battlegrounds of Viet Nam.
As Henderson so succinctly reported, 14 black football players requested that they wear armbands in protest of the Mormon practice of refusing blacks to aspire to higher ranks in the church and, as a reminder of verbal insults from the 1968 game against BYU.
Wyoming coach, Lloyd Eaton, categorically refused to allow the football field be an avenue of protest and released all the players from the team. The ensuing furor on campus pitted everyone in one of two camps: those supporting the coach's decision and those against.
The campus newspaper, The Branding Iron, printed an editorial on the Thursday before the game supporting the football players. Students were urged to attend the home game on the Saturday and wear black armbands in support of the 14 football players.
One of the great aspects of America as seen from another country was the freedoms granted to its citizens: freedom of speech, freedom of choice, freedom of religion. Tolerance was an ideal to be embraced. A black armband was a visual sign of choice. It signified that I had read the pros and cons and was ready to back it up. Much like political lawn signs for our elections.
My Wyoming friends did not hold the same liberal views as l, though they were comfortable sitting with me in the student section during the game. I was the only out-of-state student in our group that donned an armband.
I was not prepared for the verbal hate that assaulted me in the queue entering War Memorial Stadium that brilliant, sunny afternoon in October. There was definitely tension in the stadium that afternoon. I was proud of our undefeated Cowboys and was looking forward to another skilled exhibition of our athletes.
But it was not to be. Before the first kickoff I was the object of derision and ridicule for wearing the armband. My friends and I ignored the comments coming from both men and women. We tried to concentrate on the action on the football field. Language was vitriolic, spiteful, vengeful and racist. Popcorn was tossed at me. I allowed it to pass, recalling the adage: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me.
As I talked among my dorm mates the language became even more salty; as the aggressors began to assail my friends for even sitting close to me. I recall wondering why I was the object of such hatred when I hadn't said a word to these people; I merely had donned a small piece of cloth on one arm.
The game on the field was nothing compared to the battle being waged in the stands. Just before the end of the first quarter two plastic cups filled with cold beer showered over my shoulders. More harsh words, but I remained silent through it all. I'm not sure why I didn't face my detractors; why I didn't stick up for my position, but I thought if I just remained passive the anger would pass and we could all watch the game peaceably.
What occurred next has remained with me, etched forever into my psyche. Someone spit a green gob of phlegm on my neck. I was stunned. My friends said nothing, no one handed me a napkin, and no one looked at me. I was done. As I said goodbye to my friends I heard the jeers and heckles of the taunters. I took a long, hot shower when I got back to the dorm. I deposited myself in a quiet corner of the library and stayed well past the supper hour. I sequestered myself from my dorm mates. I was humiliated.
I reflect upon this moment with some sadness in my soul. I have thought about that day 40 years ago and pondered what the Jews had to suffer during World War II. Granted, what I went through was nothing but harassment; but I now had a tangible perspective of what other minorities, other races, other religions have faced throughout recorded history. I failed that day in October 1969. I couldn't face the horde of angry students. I couldn't bring myself to voice my opinion. It was a humbling experience.
Henderson's article revisited that awful day in my life with a vividness that I didn't think was possible. I thank him for that. I also know that I got through that day, that semester and that school year. I took a lesson from that day and I have remained steadfast in that teaching: that every human being deserves respect as an individual.
America may have warts and blemishes as a country, but I graduated knowing that I can make a difference in people's lives. I took the studies I mastered and helped raise three daughters who regard all people with the dignity. It is a small legacy, but we all must do our part to ensure our freedoms remain free.