Inside and Out

by Maddie C.

As I stood by the winner’s podium, I realized something: black men had ruined my career. These same black men were desecrating the Olympics by raising their fists. The winner, Tommie Smith, raised his black-gloved right hand. The bronze medalist, John Carlos, raised his left. It was the easily recognizable Black Power Salute. The sole white man, Peter Norman, the Aussie, even had some sort of badge on his jacket. Never have I ever seen such idiocy from my fellow whites. I could see that Carlos had his arm bent, for he obviously expected someone to tackle him at any moment. Of course, he wasn’t wrong; I myself was about to knock him off the podium. These men didn’t deserve their medals. Hell, I didn’t understand how they even made it onto the Olympic team. I was surely the best 200 meter sprinter we had. I should’ve been holding that gold medal, not Smith.

Logo for the 1968 Olympic Games

As I trudged back to the Olympic Village, my coach stormed up to me. “Dammit Cook, how could you lose? Strike that—you didn’t lose, you failed. We were counting on you! We were all counting on you, and you let us down,” he leered. Sure, Coach Lewis wasn’t the easiest to get along with, but he had never treated me this way before.

I gulped and glanced at the ground. “I’m sorry, Coach, I’ll never let it happen again.” I had this feeling in my gut, this inkling of foreboding in my bones, just screaming that something was about to happen. Little did I know that what he was going to say would change my life.

He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the tobacco on his breath. Coach only smoked when he was furious. This couldn’t be anything good. “Damn right you won’t! You’re off the team, and you’ll never return to the Olympics, not as long as I’m coaching!”

I sucked in a breath; was this a joke? They couldn’t ban me. I hadn’t done anything! Coach nodded, as if he could read my thoughts. I didn’t protest, because I knew that would only make my situation worse. Snapping out of my thoughts, I could hear the pounding of his feet as Coach left.

Months later, back at San Jose University, I still hadn’t accepted the fact that every opportunity in my life had shriveled up and disappeared. I was 22, for God’s sake! My life was supposed to be starting, not crashing and burning. There was nothing left for me. I was off the Olympic team, my family had practically disowned me after I lost, and I was unemployed, with no hope of finding a new job.

I stumbled back to my apartment. I probably should have taken better care of myself in those months after Mexico City. Drinking every night was killing me, inside and out. No one wanted to associate with me, not even my former friends. Even my girlfriend, Mary, left me after I came back. They all noticed that I had changed. No longer was I the guy who had everything. I was the guy who had it all and lost it because of two black men.

Walking through the shabby doorway into my unkempt apartment, I noticed something that only made me feel worse: an old black hat of mine. Of course it had to be black. I could barely wear black clothing anymore; it reminded me of the salute. Kicking the hat aside, I muttered to myself, “Forget the team. I don’t need them anyway. I’ll make it on my own.” Even though I tried to stay positive, the truth was that I hadn’t had many options. I’d been offered a few jobs, but nothing I really wanted to do, nothing in sports. I knew I didn’t medal in Mexico City, but I did come in fourth, so surely that had to mean something. They were, after all, excellent athletes. Tommie Smith ran faster than a speeding bullet! He set the world record for the 200-meter dash and became the first person to run it in under twenty seconds. I didn’t think I could ever do that. Maybe he wasn’t as worthless as I thought.

Shaking the thought off, I picked up the newspaper. Scanning through the Help Wanted section, I noticed a few jobs, but nothing I really wanted to do. Even so, I had to pay the rent for my apartment somehow. I cut out a few clippings and put them on the counter, because it’s always good to save these things for future reference. Grabbing my wallet, I headed out of my musty apartment and into the boiling summer evening.

Since graduation, I hadn’t done much. I made new friends at the bar, but that hardly counted as an achievement. Despite knowing I was wasting my time, I couldn’t motivate myself to do anything but drink. Drinking myself into a stupor was the only way I could forget what happened in Mexico on October 16, the day my life ripped apart at the seams.

Lost in thought, I drifted along on the sidewalk; by that point, I knew the way to the closest bar by heart. Not that that was a good thing, of course. I was ashamed of myself, but it was better than reliving Mexico City over and over. That night was ripping me apart, inside and out.

“Hey, are you okay?” a deep voice rumbled, startling me half to death.

Looking up, I realized I had bumped into someone. Even though it was a little dark, I knew I should have been able to see him. I practically knocked the man over like a bowling pin. “Oh! Pardon me, sir, I didn’t notice you there.”

Chuckling, he replied, “It’s quite all right, James. Nice to see you again.”

Shocked, I stared at him. Narrowing my eyes, I realized something: it was Tommie Smith, one of the men on the podium that night. “Smith?”

The fates were against me, I thought. Yet as it turns out, they were with me in droves that summer evening.

Smiling, Tommie replied, “Yes, it’s me. How have you been?”

How have I been? Is this a joke? Does he not see the bags under my eyes? The stubble on my chin? “Great, great. Now excuse me, but I have better places to be.” I tried to shove past him, but he grabbed my arm.

“Just a minute, James. I know you don’t like me, but hear me out. John and I, we’re in an organization: the Olympic Project for Human Rights. I know you are... not the most likely candidate, but we have a job opening and it looks like you could use it.” He smiled, but I could see the pools of pity in his eyes.

“Get out of my way, Smith. I’m done talking to you.” I snarled, and he just shook his head.

“All right, I’ll leave, but please, take this card. You can do whatever you want with it once I’m gone, but take it now. You never know.” Handing me a slip of paper, he nodded and started walking.

Staring after him, dumbfounded, I glanced at the card. Olympic Project for Human Rights, it stated. Job available, please call to apply. Underneath, there was a phone number. He’s offering me a job? Why?

Not being in the mood to drink anymore, I stuck the card in my pocket and turned to head home. Like I said, it’s good to keep these things for future reference. It was only a five minute walk back to my apartment, but five minutes is more than enough time to think when all you need is a push in the right direction. The card felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket. 

Walking back inside my living room, I saw the black hat again. I need to fix myself. I’m done being a drunk. Picking up the porkpie hat, I set it on the coat rack. That’s a start, I thought. Of course, I need a job if I want to keep fixing this place up.

Setting Smith’s card down next to the other job offers, I headed into the bedroom. Obviously there was no way I could’ve gotten sleep that night; there was far too much on my mind.

Is Smith right? Should I join his organization? Paralyzing thoughts like these kept me up into the early hours of the morning. One thing in particular, though, made me feel especially despicable: Am I wrong about him? Am I wrong about black people in general?

As the clock hit 6:30, I rolled over. I only got two hours of restless sleep; my mind was racing a thousand miles a minute. Over the course of that night, I mulled over my thoughts. I realized something, and that realization hit me like a truck: Tommie Smith is one of the best men I’ve ever met. And I’ve treated him like dirt, just because his skin is darker than mine. I was so horribly, horribly unjust. How could I have been so blind? Nearly every white person in my life had deserted me, yet I still supported them, still put them above others for the lightness of their skin. I was completely wrong, inside and out. It’s what’s on the inside that matters, not how you look on the outside.

What was I supposed to say to Tommie? How could you apologize to someone you had wronged so badly? He wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what I thought, I was sure, and he still offered me that job. I didn’t have a job, and I knew already that none of those other offers would hold any satisfaction for me. That left one thing to do.

Dialing the number on Smith’s card, I waited. After only a few seconds, a man picked up. “Hello, this is Harry Edwards of the Olympic Project for Human Rights. Who is speaking?”

“My name is James Cook, and I would like to speak to Tommie Smith. Is he there?”

“No sir, but I will let him know you wanted to talk to him.”

Soon enough, I had plans to meet with Tommie at Peter’s Bakery, a little place near the university. After ordering, I sat down at a booth and waited. Sure enough, he walked through the door just a few minutes behind me. He strolled up to the counter, smiled at the woman behind it, and ordered a cup of black coffee. Once he received it, Tommie ambled over and sat across from me.

“So,” he said. “I heard you wanted to talk to me.” He leaned forward, arms on the table. “Why?”

“Why?” I asked, though I had an idea of what he meant.

“Why’d you ask me to come meet you? Last time we encountered one another, you didn’t seem too chummy towards me.” He chuckled at that.

“Well,” I replied reluctantly. “I changed my mind about you, I suppose. I thought... I thought you didn’t deserve to do better than I did. But I was wrong. I didn’t know you, and I was wrong to assume that. In fact, you’ve treated me better than almost anyone. My coach, my friends, hell, even my girlfriend left me. But here you are, supporting me. I thought you were a bad person, just... just because you’re black. But I was so wrong. You are the only person standing with me now. I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me, but I thank you. That night in Mexico City... I thought it had ruined my career. I was wrong, thank God, and last I heard, there was a job opening at your organization. Is that offer still available?” I pleaded. I finally admitted it, to both Tommie and myself; I had been wrong. Tommie didn’t deserve any of the malice I directed at him. He was a good person, inside and out.

He smiled. “Of course, James. It certainly is for you.” He stood up, shook my hand, and walked out the door. The door shut quietly, like it was telling me goodbye for him.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, that was the first of many meetings I would have with Tommie. It was a test, to see if I had changed. I think I had, and I think he thought so too. Thankfully so, for if he had denied me the job, my life would have inevitably gotten worse.

After I got off the bus—I didn’t have enough money to buy and maintain a car, so I either walked or used public transport—and entered my apartment, I saw something: the black hat. It was calling out to me, telling me to put it on. So I did. I felt like things had come full circle, like my life was putting itself back together. Those men who stood on the podium in black socks and gloves were the reason I was standing there, wearing that black hat. It took me far too long to realize that the color of your skin doesn’t matter. Being white doesn’t mean you are a good person, just like being black doesn’t mean you’re a bad one.

After that meeting with Tommie, my life got much better. I took the job at the Olympic Project for Human Rights, and I proudly wore my OPHR badge for the next forty years. I only recently had to get a new one after mine snapped.

Now, standing in my old office, I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia. Pictures are pinned up on the walls: photos of Tommie and me, photos of Tommie and John’s salute way back in 1968, even photos of Peter Norman, the Aussie. Newspaper clippings line the walls, too: Black Power Salute shocks the nation! James Cook to join Olympic Project for Human Rights! World record set by Tommie Smith! There are more somber ones, as well: John Carlos: Marriage Falls Apart. Peter Norman, Olympic Legend, Dead at 64.

I’m retired now; after my sixty-fifth birthday, I wanted to spend more time with my wife. Yes, I found a girl, a girl much better than my girlfriend back in college: Betty. She, too, supported Tommie and John. We met at a demonstration one day, and we’ve been together ever since. She’s incredible, inside and out.

Despite being retired, I still come to the office some days, just to remember what happened, how it all started. Sometimes I wonder how I could’ve been such a brash young man. That night in Mexico City was one of the best in my life, because that night is what started it all.

Picking up my old black hat, I hobble out of the office, a smile on my face. I’m about to have lunch with Tommie, back at Peter’s Bakery. This time, we meet as friends, and I couldn’t be happier that things turned out this way. Turns out, with every door that closes, a new one opens, and, sometimes, it’s better than you could ever imagine.

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