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The Crazy I Inherited: My Grandpa's "Rosa Parks" Story

Some people ask me why I’m so crazy. I’m very well aware that I’m crazy. I’m quite over the top in pretty much everything that I do. I’m very animated in my mannerisms and the way I talk. I've been told that I have about 10 different types of laughs. Someday I’d like to record all of them. But most of all, I’m extreme in the way that I don’t exactly take crap from anyone. It’s gotten me in trouble sometimes, but I’m always willing to fight for myself and for other people. I’m not easily intimidated by anyone, not easily shaken. Maybe that’s because I’ve experienced enough hardship in my young life that I already have few things to fear. But I think some of my spunk is inherited from my grandpa. John Carroll Robinson was one of the first African Americans to join the Army Air Corps before it became the Air Force. He served in World War II and the Korean War. Integration was a new thing in the U.S. military. It still wasn’t a very good environment for Blacks to flourish in, so it’s a grand accomplishment for my grandpa to achieve the rank of Master Sergeant. Even with all his experience, he still had to deal with young white recruits saying that they “wouldn’t take orders from no nigger,” to which Grandpa had no problem ripping them new ones. But there’s one particular story to shows just how tough my grandpa was. I call it his “Rosa Parks” story, only because it took place on a bus and not because he handled the situation any way close to the way Parks handled hers. He was in uniform and the only seats left in the bus were in the front. So, John Carroll being John Carroll, he went ahead and took the seat. I can only imagine how the people around him felt, probably disgusted that he’d dare to sit in the “white section,” yet probably really intimidated by this guy decked out in his racks of ribbons on his uniform. I can also imagine how Grandpa felt because it’s the way I usually feel when I decide to march to the beat of my own drum: not giving a damn. The bus driver turned around and told my grandpa from his seat that he needed to move to the back. John Carroll doesn’t move, still not giving a damn.  The drive urges him a second time to move to the back. Still not giving damns. Then, the driver made a big mistake: he got up from his seat and walked over to my grandpa. He told him that he’d better move or he’d get thrown off the bus, to which John Carroll replied by standing up and pulling back his jacket to reveal his loaded revolver. “Now look,” he said, “YOU have two choices. I can shoot you right here and I’ll drive the damn bus myself, or you can sit your ass down and keep driving this bus.” I can only imagine how pale that bus driver got as he sheepishly slinked back to his seat and took the latter option. Yep, if genetics has anything to do with personality, I know that Grandpa is the reason why I’m what most people call crazy: I dare to do things that other won’t, to say things that others are thinking. I stand up for myself and other people. I know I’m just as good as everyone else, if not sometimes better and I refuse to be treated as less than what I am, no matter who I have to stand up to. Hey, if that’s crazy, call me and John Carroll crazy.