I was immersed in the Austin running scene from the summer of 1981 until my departure for Korea in November 2007. In fact, I remember rather wistfully competing in a 5K race in my final week there. Of the 600-plus races I have run in my life, at least 75% of them took place in the Austin area.
Because I was both a runner and a journalist, I made a pitch to the local newspaper, the Austin American-Statesman, for a weekly or biweekly column about running. And so it began in mid-1986. I covered the results of races, did features of runners, addressed a variety of pertinent subjects and tried to do it in an entertaining way. I was paid the piddling sum of $25 per column, which featured the words “Austin Running,” my name and my smiling face. Whether it was fame or infamy, people knew who I was. Countless times when I won an age-group award, the person with the microphone made reference to me as the AmStat’s running columnist.
Big races or small races, I always brought a pen and notebook to get basic facts or sometimes quotes to use. This eventually became a burden since I wrote the column for 3 1/2 years. There were people who practically raved about it, and I learned indirectly about others who were less enthusiastic. Fred Zipp, then the newspaper’s sports editor—later the managing editor and now the editor-in-chief—, seemed to value my work.
I was getting tired of this gig and then along came an issue that led to my resignation. Bear with me as I explain. Sometime in 1987, the ostensibly wise individuals who called the shots at the AmStat made an editorial shift. Exactly who did this and why was never explained, to me or the readers. It was implemented silently, suddenly and without discussion. I refer to the paper’s decision to capitalize the letter “b” when referring to black people. Really, there would have been no problem had they also capped the “w” in reference to white people. We are all people, and we all deserve respect, right? But the rule was to make “black” alone upper case.
Occasionally, when I was in the AmStat newsroom I would make discreet inquiries. Why, I asked, was this editorial policy made? Who was behind it? Had some pressure been applied, and if so, by whom? Furthermore, I talked to some of my black colleagues, and they found it embarrassing. This was pandering, pure and simple, another example of the guilt, shame and indeed self-hatred felt by many European-Americans. Such is our history, at least as it is perceived by some.
Having recently seen my book on integration of Southwest Conference football published, I had solid non-racist credentials. In the discussions I had with people in and out of the newspaper, I argued only for a fair and even-handed approach in contradistinction to this strange editorial policy. I conducted a little research and found that not another American newspaper was doing it. If the big boys at the AmStat thought they would spark a trend, they were mistaken.
In the last few months of 1989, I had begun to do more than grumble. Outside the walls of the American-Statesman, I circulated a petition asking for a return to its previous policy. Just over 60 people signed. I was in the newsroom one night in late December when it was nearly deserted. I typed up my column with a personal note at the bottom stating that I was through. Without ever having said a word about this to Zipp or others on the staff, I went over to the office of the editor-in-chief and slipped the petition under his door along with a letter calmly stating the reason for my resignation. Truthfully, it was more than just high principles and conscience; as indicated earlier, I was sick of doing the running column! But he did not have to know that.
Did I think my effort would bring about a change? Hardly. But guess what happened on January 10, 1990? I was sitting on the bed in my apartment in Travis Heights, reading the newspaper, and there it was—consistent use of the lower case “b.” The absurd and divisive editorial policy had been overturned. I called my girlfriend of the time and told her. Kathy, who had supported me and signed the petition, was initially disbelieving. She scrambled to find a copy of that day’s newspaper and saw that it was true. I practically screamed into the telephone, “I brought them to their knees!”
Nobody at the AmStat called or wrote in response to these events, and it did not bother me that I had ended all possibility of future employment at Austin’s only newspaper. I remained friends with Zipp and other guys from the sports department, such as Kirk Bohls and John Mayer. Bohls and Mayer later wrote a book on the history of University of Texas football, referencing two of mine therein. When Memorial Stadium was renamed for ex-coach Darrell Royal, Bohls called to get my thoughts. I was opposed, if only because of his pitifully slow integration of the Longhorn football program in the 1960s. DKR was a coward on this crucial issue and did not deserve such an honor.
Over the ensuing years, I corresponded and sometimes jousted with other writers and editors at the American-Statesman, such as Mike Kelley, John Kelso, Denise Gamino, Arnold Garcia, Michael Barnes, Alberta Philips, Rich Oppel and Michael MacCambridge. Whether it was a matter of style or substance, I did not hesitate to offer my thoughts. I probably had 15 letters-to-the-editor printed after my departure in early 1990.
There is one more element to this story. The Austin Chronicle, a weekly alternative publication, devoted half a page to the issue of the AmStat, its upper-case “b” and the rebellious running columnist. I laid out the facts as I have done here. The article concluded with a quote, which I paraphrase as follows: “It was a particularly egregious form of political correctness, but let’s give them credit. They knew they were wrong, and they changed the policy.”
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