This is a guest post, written by Dirk Uphoff
Back in the Summer of 1968, my family and I went on vacation to visit my Aunt, Uncle and Cousins. This was not our typical Summer vacation of fishing up North. This particular summer vacation, we drove the entire way from Central Illinois to Nashville, Tennessee.
I was eight years old then, and my older brother was getting ready to turn thirteen. I remember thinking my brother would become a teenager, which for me was such a cool thing!
My parents told me we would be driving through Kentucky, so I made them promise that we would eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I was certain I would get a chance to meet Colonel Sanders. Wow, I was so excited!
But of all the things I was looking forward to, nothing compared to the fact that once we arrived at my Uncle’s, we were going to have dinner at the Country Club!
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but my brother said it was going to be really good and really fancy. So I was beside myself with anticipation. This would prove to be the best vacation ever!
During our drive South, I remember talking incessantly about the Country Club. I’m sure I was driving my parents up the wall and probably got my little sisters talking about it too. Once we finally arrived, I remember telling my Aunt how excited I was about going to the “Country Club.”
After spending a day or so at my uncle’s house having fun with my cousins, I remember my aunt started to talk about her famous blueberry pancakes. I liked pancakes, but I had never heard of blueberry pancakes! Every time our paths crossed, she reminded me of those blueberry pancakes.
I will never forget what happened. On the day we were going to the Country Club, my Aunt said she had a surprise for me. With bated breath, I looked up at her as she told me we weren’t going to that “busy” Country Club. We were going to stay there and have blueberry pancakes instead!
I tried to hide my disappointment, but doubt I did a good job of it. I remember looking at my Mom and seeing a combination of anger and sadness on her face, yet covered up by a weak smile.
You may have guessed by now that I’m a transracial adoptee. My first Mom was White, and my first Dad was Black. We know what that makes me in 1968 Nashville.
We never saw much of my Aunt and Uncle from Nashville after that. I didn’t know why then. I do now.
