I decided to get in the pool.
I took my book and my little bag of beauty products, determined not to let any negative thoughts about race or class get to me. Come hell or high water, into the pool I would go.
It was all transpiring according to plan until I got to the gate of the pool area. I couldn't figure out how to open it. I tried putting my door key in the slot, jiggling the handle, pushing the gate: no entry. Various people sat on the other side of the gate watching me do this.
I realized there was another gate and walked toward it. I decided that maybe the people who watched me struggling to get in--all white--didn't feel comfortable opening the gate for someone they couldn't verify as a hotel guest. Or heck, maybe they just didn't see me.
I found the other gate, strode through it with purpose, picked up a couple of towels and set myself up on a chaise in the middle of the action. Kids running around, mothers and daughters chatting over tea, college guys with beers on their side tables, the whole nine. I thought okay, I'm just going to be totally open and see what happens. I asked the woman next to me if the water was cold, and she asked her daughter to swim over to us to report. "It's nice," shesaid.
That seemed good.
I sat for a few more minutes, counting the number of people in the pool. Well, I counted, not wanting to miss anyone, there are two kids, six adult men and three young women. All white. This is going to be fine, I thought. This is not Mississippi 1972. Stop having flashbacks, I told myself, have some faith. That could be your (white) father in that pool, or your (white) brother. That could be your (white) sister lounging on the rocks, the one who, in fact, has a black boyfriend.
So I got up, walked to edge of the pool, teetered for a moment, and then dove in. It was heavenly. Cool and refreshing. Sparkling clear. The light, the water, the sky, all of it was fantastic. I started swimming from one end to the other, slowly, enjoying a few moments of freedom from writing and trying to have a coherent conversation with my three-year-old on Skype.
After a few strokes, I noticed that two of the guys headed toward the edge and lifted themselves out. Then as I reached the other side, another few got out, and then one of the young women. By the time I had done two laps, I kid you not, all of the adults and one of the two kids had GOTTEN OUT OF THE POOL.
I kept swimming, telling myself it had nothing to do with me. It's lunchtime. They've been swimming for a while. They're all going to eat, yes, AT THE SAME TIME.
I got out and slathered on some oil, imagining what I would write in my post today. I was fairly sad about the state of affairs. I wanted to believe the best about all involved, but I didn’t want to be an idiot, either. I considered asking the woman next to me if everyone just got out of the pool because I'm not white, but as I was formulating my approach, she got up and left.
It was a very disconcerting few minutes.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman in a red-striped bikini, reading a book. I strained to see the cover: Negroes with Guns. I almost fell over. As seen on Amazon: "First published in 1962, Negroes with Guns is the story of a southern black community's struggle to arm itself in self defense against theKu Klux Klan and other racist groups."
Good, I thought. That's a sign that this is not a monolithic white community, there is variety here, ideological shades of gray, just like in an all-black environment. That made me feel a bit better.
When I got home this evening, I Googled Arizona swimming pools, segregated, and came up with this interesting interview with a man who remembers when Mexicans were only allowed to swim in the public pool one day a week—the day before it was drained and cleaned. I looked up civil rights activists in Phoenix, and found this scholar and his work tracking the civil rights struggles in the state.
As a poster pointed out on my The Swimming Pool, Part 1, I'm no historian, just a biracial working mom out here trying to tell it like it is in my blog on parenting, so that my son doesn't inadvertently walk into someplace he shouldn't.
But I'm also all about moving forward, on his (and my own) behalf. I wish the white woman sitting next to me at the pool had stayed a few more minutes.
We might have had a good talk.
