My Missed Opportunity
The Backstory
When my parents settled down after World War II they found a lot with a small house on it located on Davenport Avenue in the Oakland hills. The steep lot had sheep grazing on it and a wonderful view of San Francisco and the Golden Gate. Mom referred to the little house as a "sheepherders shack".
Dad spent much of the next three decades renovating and expanding that house.
But, at the time the realtor showed them the property, they were surprised how affordable it was and questioned why so many of the houses on the street were for sale.
The realtor grudgingly told them the house next door had been recently purchased by a woman who "passed for white". And, when her very dark West Indian husband appeared, for sale signs bloomed.
The couple went on to play a pivotal role in the formative years of my life.
My father worked nights for most of my childhood. We kind of only saw each other on weekends and when we would go on camping trips each summer.
So every night I'd eat dinner with my mom and sister and then ask to go "visit next door" where my neighbors were somehow willing to put up with the nosy little boy from next door. I got to eat fried plantains and toast with homemade guava jelly. We'd sit on the carpet in front of their HiFi spinning records.
My favorite records featured the magical Calypso beat of Harry Belafonte.
Time spent next door included patient explanations of the civil rights movement. And what I was told stood in stark contrast to what I heard at home.
They would take me places in their white Plymouth Lancer and Mr. H always enchanted everyone with his beautiful lilting West Indian "Cola Nut" accent.
My neighbor's were both well educated and frequently hosted cocktail parties that I'd somehow drift into. I was clueless who their guests were and only later would I come to find out that guests included famous entertainers, musicians from Count Basie's Orchestra, local politicos, and presidential cabinet members.
After I graduated from High School. My dad retired and we decided to move to Idaho which is where I went to college. In college I traded a few calls and letters with my neighbors and at one point got a call to ask if I could meet them in Lake Tahoe. No explanation was given why.
The Story
The timing was 1977(?) and I was facing midterms in college. So when I explained to them that I couldn't meet in Tahoe it was understood.
I later found out from my sister (who coincidentally lived at Lake Tahoe and was able to join them) that they had seats in the Sahara Hotel's "High Sierra" showroom to see Harry Belafonte.
She told me that after the show they were invited backstage to visit with Mr. Belafonte. My sister said they talked like old friends. My (very white) sister was introduced as their daughter and they noted their "son" (moi) was away at college.
Oh to be able to turn a clock backwards.
Here is what I later found out.
Apparently Mr. Belafonte had performed in Lake Tahoe years before at the hotel casino across the street. Despite being the headliner. The hotel owner gave strict instructions to enter and exit through the loading dock and to not walk through his casino before or after his shows.
Despite having to endure that indignity Belafonte met his obligation to perform without indicating to his audience the obscene treatment he had received.
But my neighbor's knew the story and that Belafonte swore he'd never again return to perform at Lake Tahoe until he could "enter through the front doors".
That Sahara show was Belafonte's return in triumph. Coincidentally, at almost the same time the casino owner that snubbed him died. Under new ownership Belafonte returned repeatedly to play the venue across the street as well.
With Mr. Belafonte's passing this week at age 96 heaven became richer by one.
