It was 1953. A war had boiled up in Korea and we four, Morris, Wayne, Robert, and me, had been requested to help win it.
That had meant joining others from everywhere for sixteen weeks of basic infantry and artillery training. Ordinarily, that would have been enough, but we were among the select few who had volunteered for and had managed to survive eight weeks of leadership training, a grueling assault on both body and brain. All of it was to toughen our abilities and resolve, give us an edge on the battlefield, keep us from being shipped back home in a pine box.
Then we were given seven days of leave, just enough time to go back home and say some teary goodbyes before heading to the other side of the world.
Wayne had a friend who had volunteered his car. We would drive from Camp Chaffee in Arkansas where we had been stationed, to Indianapolis, Indiana, where Wayne and Robert lived. Morris and I lived in separate towns a few miles away. We would split, then get back together for the return trip.
We had been able to get away at noon, so later in the day found us in eastern Missouri. Hungry, we stopped at a cafe on the outskirts of a small town, went inside where maybe a dozen people were eating, and sat down. No one, however, greeted us or brought us menus. Then a man, wiping his hands on his apron, came out from behind the counter, and walked up to the booth in which we were seated.
“You three guys can stay here,” he said, then pointing to Robert, he added, “but he goes.” That’s when he pointed to a sign reading: “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, including colored people.”
Tired and hungry, we at first were confused, then we caught on. Segregation was still alive and well, and unlike the military where we all existed as one, we had walked right into the ugly jaws of it.
Wayne looked straight at the man and said, “If he goes, we all go.” With that, we all got up, left, and never looking back, headed on down the highway. Supper ended up being some snacks and Cokes at a gas station.
We could have filled the car with raised fists and loud expletives, but that never happened. Instead, Robert, his eyes filling with tears, told us we hadn’t needed to do that, that he would have gladly gone back to the car and we could have brought him something to eat. We quickly and firmly assured him we would never do that, not on a battlefield, and surely not in a rinky dink eatery in Missouri.
We went on to ponder what would have happened if we had refused to leave. Hurled accusations? A fight? Police coming? Being arrested for disturbing the peace? Considering the “greeting” we received, certainly part of the above, maybe all of it, on top of which would be possible military consequences.
I’ve never forgotten that incident. I even remember that the cafe was on the north side of the highway. Most important, however, I’ve come to think of it as being a matter of dignity. If we were going to be involved in fighting for our country, then we were going to do it not only with a sense of responsibility but also with a sense of dignity.
The guy in the cafe was caught in the middle. If he enforced the rule, such as it was, he had only the four of us to contend with. If he didn’t, the word would quickly spread, likely resulting in loss of both friends and business. Also at stake was his dignity as a human being. Agonizingly, the only way he could preserve that was to brace up, state the case, and make the demand, while fervently hoping we would just leave.
As human beings, our sense of dignity may be unspoken, maybe even unidentified, or even hidden, but it’s there. Even people convicted of crimes serious enough to be sentenced to death, have it. More than one judge has bowed to a simple request from that person who wants to show their dignity on the eve of their death.
It doesn’t, however, stop there. High positions in the corporate world and national leadership come with a sense of dignity to be honored and preserved. Every king, queen, president, or ruler of any kind must admit to its existence, then attempt to submit to its implied essence or requirements.
All of this is quite logical in that it’s there regardless of all other factors, even when not visible by others. It’s a state of mind, a label attesting to our right to exist or having existed despite all other conditions.
The challenge, indeed the obligation, is to not only know about it, but also to honor it — always and no matter what.
