The American novelist Thomas Wolfe once wrote, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” He was right. You can’t.
I tried — with my friend, Philip.
A near-fatal bout of sepsis has made driving a challenge for me and a firm no-no, according to my kids. Through a mutual friend, I was introduced to Philip, who has driven for some of the rich and famous and has been kind enough to take me where I need to go.
Over several trips and conversations, Philip and I discovered we were from the same hometown — East Point — and had graduated from the same high school, Russell High.
Small world. But a much different one. My East Point was white. He was Black.
I was born in East Point and spent part of my adult life there, but I had no real understanding of Philip’s East Point — where it was or how to get there. This was, after all, the segregated South. On our various trips, we decided to return one day and revisit our shared hometown. That day came a few weeks ago.
It had been a long time for me, and the East Point I saw was not the one I remembered as a youngster. As Gertrude Stein said of Oakland, “There is no there there.”
Many familiar landmarks have been razed, replaced by empty space.
Time has not been kind to the home I grew up in or to the surrounding neighborhood. Several houses were boarded up, lawns overgrown. A few homes showed signs of renovation, but not many. Our first home as a married couple looked especially worn.
Our last family home has held up better, though it sits beneath the flight path to and from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport — the very reason we left.
From there, we went to Philip’s East Point, literally across the railroad tracks. If I expected rundown houses and neglected streets, I was mistaken. Instead, I saw brick homes and neatly trimmed lawns. During segregation, the area had been home to Black professionals — doctors, attorneys, and business owners. Frankly, Philip’s old neighborhood looked better than mine.
But my life had been easier.
Philip was part of the first class to integrate Russell High School and endured the indignities that came with it.
That was nothing new for him. Being Black in the segregated South meant living with indignities every day.
When I was growing up, there was an amusement park called Funtown — rides, miniature golf, and a skating rink. I went often. Philip and his friends could not. They could only peer over the fence. If employees saw their hands on the top, they would rap their knuckles with a stick.
Music was Philip’s passion, and he quickly became involved in the school’s music program and marching band. He faced the racism he expected from some teachers and students, but even then, some occasional white teachers and classmates helped him adjust. Not everyone was a racist.
I asked Philip whether he had experienced physical abuse. He told me about being jumped by a group of white boys while attending band camp. The attackers weren’t part of the camp — they were attending a nearby church retreat.
There were also points of pride in Philip’s East Point. When his grandfather, Will Tinch, a longtime city employee, died at 113 — not a typo — city dignitaries served as escorts at his funeral.
I left East Point for corporate America. Philip left and joined the Navy.
Two different people. Two different backgrounds. Two different paths.
But we discovered something that united us.
When I was in high school, a Dairy Queen opened just off campus. It became a gathering place for my friends and me. It was for Philip and his friends, too.
What better way to end our trip than lunch together at Dairy Queen?
East Point is no longer home for either of us, but it is where we grew up. And despite the divides of race, time, and experience, it gave us something lasting: a friendship.
That alone made the trip worthwhile.