Occasionally an artistic endeavor—whether a movie, painting, book, poem, or something more complex or even more simple—will drive itself deep into our minds, conjuring memories of what was, or thoughts of what could be, or questions about why things were as they were or are as they are. The movie Green Book, which is now in theaters around the country, is one such powerful endeavor. Here’s why:

    Those of us of a certain age remember the 1950s and '60s. For me, those were transformative decades, moving me from childhood through my teen years. Living in Virginia for most of that time, and visiting my birthplace of New York City regularly, I distinctly recall a cloud over society, something that became more clear as I grew older, something I could eventually identify as racism.  

     To get a sense of what those times were like, or to remind yourself of them, see Green Book, starring Mahershala Ali and Viggo Mortensen. Brace yourself for an emotional ride through America as it was in 1962. And as you watch and laugh and perhaps cry, ask yourself the following: 

     When it comes to understanding those we consider "different," is there any substitute for interacting with them, listening to them, putting ourselves in their place, understanding their circumstances, beliefs, values? 

     And at the same time, ask: 

     How did we ever tolerate this in the United States...and would we ever accept this as the norm again?

     Green Book is the true story of an incredibly unlikely relationship between a master African American musician—the wealthy and well-educated Dr. Don Shirley—and his protector/driver Tony "Lip" Vallelonga, a classic tough guy from the Bronx streets. In a nutshell: Shirley is about to embark on a concert tour in the deep South in 1962. He hires tough Tony to drive him to gigs in racially charged cities throughout Jim Crow Country.

     During their eight weeks of travel, the two men gain insights into one another, society, and themselves. 

     Billed most often as a "dramedy," the movie is muchmore than that. The events in it, such as the acceptance of Dr. Shirley as a highly regarded entertainer performing in ritzy white venues where he is nonetheless barred from eating in their restaurants or using their restrooms, are not over-dramatized. They are portrayed instead as the reality of that era: This is how things were. 

     The men react to those realities sometimes with anger, other times with laughter, often with deep-rooted pain, and almost always with new insights brought about, in part, by the extremes of their relationship and by the fact that they must spend hours together in a car.

     What kept running through my head as I watched, and what lingers still, were recollections of what I had seen, but did not always react to, while growing up in Virginia: The "Colored Only" restrooms and water fountains; the "Colored Only" schools; the off-the-cuff inappropriate references to African Americans tossed about by many adults and kids. 

     I remembered the time my mother was accosted by another white woman who was appalled that I, a white child of five years old or so, was about to drink from a water fountain labeled "Colored Only." The woman yanked me away. My mother asked her what she was doing. 

     The woman said, "Your son is about to drink from a Colored's fountain. That's disgusting." 

     To which my mother said, "My son doesn't know about black and white; he only knows that he's thirsty." Mom then turned to me and said, "Go ahead and drink, honey. Don't listen to her." 

    Years later, at age 16, I worked away from home in the summer at a folk club in Virginia Beach that featured performers from all over the country. Part of my job was to reserve hotel rooms for visiting performers and then to escort them to the hotel when they arrived. For one performer, an African American, I rode with him to the hotel where I had reserved his room. When we approached the check-in counter, the clerk quickly glanced at us and then at the reservation list and told us that no reservation had been made. I said I had booked it myself and reminded him of all the other acts I had booked there. The clerk just kept shaking his head, saying, "No, no reservation and no rooms available anyway, so you'd better go somewhere else." 

     The performer pulled me aside and said softly, "I know what's going on. Let’s go. I’ll find a place where I can stay." We drove about 30 minutes inland, where we eventually found a rundown motel with a big sign that said, "Coloreds Welcome." The performer said, "See, this is where I get to stay." He wasn't complaining; he was resigned to the fact that this is how life was. 

     However, I did something then that I am sure was part of my mother channeling through me. I said, "We have room in our house. Come and stay with us." 

     I drove off with him and he stayed with me and my three roommates. Whenever he entered the house with us, any neighbors around stared, shook their heads, and muttered. 

     Green Book brought back so many other disturbing memories: The fact that some restaurants had two menus, one for whites and another much more expensive one for blacks, so the managers could say that they did not refuse to serve African Americans, they just had to charge more to make the kinds of food “those people” liked...if they weren't already "sold out" of that food. 

     Or the time that an African American friend and I waited to be seated at a nearly empty restaurant. The host glanced at us and said, "We are expecting a very big crowd, so hold on for a few minutes so I can see if any seats will be available." After waiting several minutes, I noted to the host that the restaurant was virtually empty. He grudgingly seated us, but we never received a menu, never had a server stop by our table, and when we finally walked out, not a single staff member acknowledged us.

    Green Book reminded me of a part of society that should be buried in the past...but I know it is not. 

     See the movie for yourself. See what memories it brings. And if you would like to share those memories with me, please email me at chuckwrites@yahoo.com. I will not publish anything you send without first discussing it with you and getting your permission. However, though I am interested in hearing your thoughts, mostly I hope you will go see the powerful Green Book and think about where society was then, how to keep that as part of our past, and how people can change. 

Copyright Chuck Cascio; all rights reserved.

By

Chuck Cascio

My father, Modesto “Morris” Cascio, was born on August 19, 1919 and passed away far too young.

This is my modest tribute to him in the month of his hundredth birthday.

     His house blossomed as he walked Brooklyn’s streets helping his father bring home meat, bread, and occasionally a small piece of cake from the Depression-induced lines filled with hungry people in a land that once held promise for them all. 

     Remarkably, the promise remained inside him in the form of the house taking shape slowly within his agile mind, a mind capable of seeing hope during the days and nights on those dark streets miles and years away from the home in the rolling hills of Virginia that gradually grew as real to him as the stench of beer billowing from the brewery near the tenement where he lived with his parents, a sister, and two brothers. 

     His house evolved out of the spirit of his mind and took shape through his own will and desire. But first, he fought in the Second World War and then, four years after it ended, he took his small, beautiful wife and me and moved us out of Brooklyn, leaving behind the tenements, the stale brewery odors, his siblings, and his parents as one life slipped forward and the other slipped into the past but both made up the man who left Brooklyn. 

     The move saddened his immigrant father whose greatest fear was to lose any of his four children. All three of his sons had returned safely to Brooklyn after the War, but their wartime departure and his fears for their safety had turned his hair gray and furrowed his brow. Now this son—the second eldest child, the son who loved jazz and opera and who could make his mother laugh by turning her through a new dance step and who read someone named Shakespeare and who showed kindness to his siblings through a tease, a taunt, or an embrace—this son said he would be leaving because he felt a new life and a house growing inside of him. 

     Before he left, he assured his father, “Papa, you will hear from me often and we will visit, and you and Mama will visit us too. You’ll see; it will be good—good for you and good for me and for my family.” 

     The house he built in that strange land called Virginia became him—solid brick, 

sturdy with quiet nuances of beauty, and a yard filled with trees and rolling emerald fields of grass. With dignity and simple elegance it faced the street—a street that began as dirt, eventually graduated to gravel and, then, finally to asphalt as the world around both him and his house began to change…a world that had graduated in stages inside him as he grew from a dreamer, to a man making dreams come true, and eventually to his fulfillment of a new life. 

My father’s house—our house—just outside of Vienna, VA.

     Every morning I watched as just prior to sitting at the kitchen table he would silently glance outside at the backyard, a view unimaginably different from the narrow streets and alleyways of his youth. Sometimes he nodded quickly and seemed to smile at the contrast. At other times, with his ever-present newspaper folded tightly under his arm, he would open the back door and stand there for several minutes, carefully surveying what was now his—and ours from him—before quietly sitting down. 

     How many days did I watch him sit at the breakfast table already in his suit and tie, reading his morning newspaper, ready for office work…another thing he had once only imagined but now lived?  He would sip coffee and occasionally give me and my younger brother and sister subtle reminders about how to behave, encouraging us to work our hardest, helping us understand that we must have a dream and we must be willing to pursue it. 

    And there were those times he would call us all together, excited about some small idea that had emerged: 

      “How about if we nail a backboard to that tree way in the backyard so you can practice shooting baskets anytime you want?” 

      “Let’s have a cement patio put in right at the bottom of the back steps connecting to the carport; then we can all eat outside!”

     “Gotta get together this weekend to start raking up the leaves. Fall is here!” 

     And in those brief, informal family meetings, he made his house and his dreams a part of his reality, a part of us, a part of all that we would be.

     His father visited the house only once. I still can see my grandfather, a Sicilian immigrant, sitting on the cement patio by the carport on a plastic and aluminum lawn chair, looking confused, as if he had once again migrated to a foreign country…this place with trees and space and fresh air. Over several days, he gradually sat smiling comfortably as he smoked a short, crooked, black cigar, sipped wine, and looked up occasionally from his Italian magazine to glance at the sky. On the day he left, a tear formed as he held his son, and the son, being the kind of man who could kiss his father, did just that. 

     His father returned to the solid streets of Brooklyn, his  place, the place he  had imagined as a boy who left Sicily with a dream, but he had briefly experienced the air and space of his son’s house and had seen the man his son had become. Neither man had regrets and both men knew they would always share certain realities—the family, the bread lines, the beer stench, the War, the fear of detaching from where you are and losing the essentials of who you are…but the absolute importance of taking that step. 

       After his father left, my father again quietly surveyed what was his and what he had become…the foundation of his being. Through his house he had proved that there is no detachment where there is real love; there is only an emergence of things that at first exist in the spaces of the mind, then take root in the soul, and eventually blossom from the heart.

     I have wanted so much of what he had, but nothing has consumed me more than his house—not the structure or the eclectic décor nor the lasting irrefutable loveliness of its grounds—no, it is not the house itself  that I have wanted. It is his quiet pride, his brilliant vision, his deep courage, his belief that this was it! He had achieved his sense of place and he had fulfilled the hope that had grown from the depths of his heart and his mind. He had absorbed the risks, built a new life, and shared it all with those he loved. 

     My father had taken his dream to reality and, in doing so, he had planted dreams inside us all.

THE END

Copyright: Chuck Cascio, all rights reserved.