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My Dad Was Always There
By Nancy Augustine, Simsbury
I was about 7 years old when I first watched news footage of civil rights demonstrators being beaten, tear-gassed and arrested. Being white and living in Simsbury, one would think I would be far removed from the violence before me. But Mom kept shushing my siblings and me as we huddled in front of the TV. We were looking and we were listening because Dad was there. Somewhere in the chaos—the dogs and the cops and people running—one thought ran through my mind: Dad’s there … Why?
As I got older he'd try to explain: "No man is free until all men are free," etc.
I admit now that there were times when I wished for a more "normal," self-centered, money-motivated father like most of my friends had, but the first time I attended a demonstration, I knew the answer to my question. I was 9 or 10, and I think it was a moratorium for the killing in Vietnam—a sea of all kinds of people listened to speeches and sang songs of protest and peace, and then I knew why. Dad was part of something much bigger than himself. He never really had any choice—his conscience and compassion dictated his being.
I remember seeing a photo in a national magazine of thousands of marching, singing blacks, led by Dr. King … and my dad was there. The presence of whites on the front lines of the civil rights ''war'' marked the beginning of the end of the way things were. White racists targeted people like my dad, and some blacks were not so sure whitey was to be trusted. My dad was in a no-win situation, and yet he could not be what he was not—he had to be there. I remember many times the beatings and tear-gassings playing out, the phone calls from jail, the big disappointments and the small triumphs.
The night Dr. King died, Dad pulled the station wagon to the side of the road and through tears mumbled, "Christ, they've killed Martin." He brought us home and quickly left to see what he could do to help with the inevitable riots that would occur in the city. On TV we watched as Hartford burned—chaos, rage and fire … and Dad was there.
My father counseled conscientious objectors during Vietnam. He took great interest in the war in the Middle East, traveling alone and with us to Israel—always a cause, always a war … and Dad was there.
Believe it or not, forty years later and in perhaps a calmer way, my dad is still "there." His latest book, The Second Civil War, chronicles some of his time in the South in the midst of the civil rights movement. He still speaks to kids and whoever else will listen about the things we can and should be doing to elevate the human race.
During this Black History Month and on the heels of Martin Luther King Day, I'd like to tell Voice readers how proud I am of my dad, a man who lived out his convictions during an entire lifetime. My father rallied for causes that were not his own and put himself in harm’s way for justice, truth and equality. He carried on and is still carrying on the dream.
As he was for others, for me my dad was always there. Peace.
Nancy Augustine is the proud daughter of civil rights activist and author David Truskoff of Granby.
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