The Color Line

Dallas gets some unwanted attention when he introduces his new girlfriend to his friends.

WARNING (Author's Note): This story contains racial slurs and racist ideologies. This story has mentions of the Vietnam War, interracial dating, and the life in the 1960s. This is the 60s, after all, during the most racially charged time for Civil Rights. However, this story DOES NOT CONDONE RACISM. Another note: If you see mainly Italics font in the dialogue, the characters are speaking German. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, Dallas speaks German in this fic. Warnings include: mentions of war, interracial dating, Original Characters of Color, sexual themes, mild to moderate violence, foul language, nudity(?), racist ideologies and of course, backstories involving Dallas Winston. This is a VERY DALLAS-CENTRIC fic, people. Letting you know. Proceed.

The closest thing Dallas Winston got to a dialogue about race was when he grew up in Harlem, New York. It was the ghettos; people who were poor, desperate, and all different colors of the multicultural rainbow, would be crammed into the projects to hide white America from the ugliness of prejudice. He and his parents were the handful of white tenants crammed in the multitude of browns and blacks; they were specks of salt in the sea of pepper, oddities that have no business existing where they don't belong.

But they did belong; they were people struggling to survive because they couldn't fit into the mold of American society: middle class, nuclear family, patriotic, white. Dallas's German-Sicilian heritage, low-class income, broken family and slight hatred of American government doesn't quite make the cut; he and his family are lumped together with the other rejects, all struggling to survive in the melting pot known as Harlem.

He was exposed to drugs, crime, sex, and desperation, all through the thin walls of his home. He'd witness someone get murdered from his window, taste the iron from blood as someone gets beaten to a pulp, hear the noises of women's moans as they whore themselves out for money. Despite those moments of despair, there was one thing that remains: love.

He'd witness love at the age of eight, when his mother and father would dance together under the soft glow of candles after their lights got cut off, humming an old tune from their youth while Dallas watches in wonder. He then learned the power of love, the word of sweetness and warmth, radiating from his mother as she'd tell stories of her youth. She was the most important woman in their lives; when she died, Dallas took it pretty hard, but his father took it the hardest.

His father isn't a cold man from Dallas's understanding; he's just stuck in the past. A German immigrant who fled his country in the 30s, he's a man who didn't fit in to this American world of fast pace and ignorance. It didn't help that he still had his accent and struggled with English after 15 years. His wife, Teresa, was the only form of communication he has with the American language; she became his translator and encyclopedia of American society who also did all the grunt work in legal documents and networking. After she died, it was Dallas that took her place.

It wasn't easy being in his shoes, handling adult responsibilities while being a kid. While others played and had fun, Dallas was translating from English to German about legal documents, bills, and something as simple as ordering food at a restaurant. He was the one to force his father into socializing; you could only stay in your home for so long. It took years for his father to finally assimilate into American society and speak perfect English. Despite the steps forward, he was still stuck in his archaic way of thinking.

" Don't bring home any darkies, son."

Dallas spat out his soup.

He was shy of 13, free from his two weeks in the cooler. He and his father are at his favorite restaurant, on a snowy afternoon in the middle of December. His father looks at Dallas with his stern blue eyes.

"What are you talking about?" He asks his father, his cheeks turning red from the embarrassment and the cold.

His father looks out at the window, snarling so much his canines are bared. Dallas looks out the window and sees the image that offends his father so.

There, walking down the avenue hand in hand, is a white boy and a black girl. They're smiling, laughing, oblivious to the cold stare his father is giving them.

"Disgusting," he snarls when the couple exchange a soft kiss.

Dallas didn't see much of a problem; couples like that come a plenty, especially in their projects. Him and his father see them all the time and his father hasn't said so much as a word about it. Why now?

"What is?"

"Them. Those negresses are good for one thing. Don't you dare be an embarrassment like that man and bring home a goddamn nigger."

Dallas flinches at the word.

His friend Ricky told him not to say that word; it's an evil word, a cruel word, a word that makes Ricky ball his fist and fight him. It's a word of anger and hate; Dallas had heard enough of Ricky's stories to know that.

He wants to say something, tell him that his words are wrong and that Ricky wouldn't like it if he said such things to his face. Instead, he says nothing; he watches the couple walk past them, eyes gleaming with apology. He loses his appetite and pushes his food away.

"What's wrong, son?"

"Nothing. I've lost my appetite for the day."

That night, he lied in bed thinking about his father's words. He feels that his words are wrong because Ricky said so, yet he was raised to believe his father's word is always right. But his words sound so awful and cruel; his mother always told him to not hate anyone without a good reason. What have they done to his father for him to react this way? Nothing; all the couple did was hold hands and mind their business. He kept thinking about the words he heard his father say, weighing it with Ricky's horror stories of what those words cost him. Those words swirled and mixed in his head until his head hurt and he couldn't tell who said what and what was actually said. He closed his eyes, vowing to push it back and never think about it again.

"We're moving to Oklahoma."

It's been a year since that conversation; Dallas is eating corn flakes when he broke the news.

His father earned a job that pays handsomely; they could live a fresh start. Dallas would leave Harlem behind, leave Ricky, Marco, and Delilah behind for a dry ass town in the middle of nowhere. Tulsa, what the hell kind of name is that? That sounds like a soda-pop brand or something.

Not that he had much of a choice; he'd six weeks to pack his bags, wave his friends goodbye and head west.

He looks out from his porch as his father packs the last of his things in the van. The sticky summer made his clothes cling to his body; he's going to miss the refreshing taste of Ricky's mom's homemade iced tea with the mint leaves inside. Ricky watches from the comfort of the fifth floor, shouting out promises and for him to always write. Dallas scoffs. They both know good and well they're damn near illiterate; what business they have writing to each other if both can't read?

"I'm mad you're leavin'." Marco grumbles, throwing his ball at the brick wall. Delilah is sitting on the porch next to him, smoking a cigarette and trying to comb through her freshly flat-ironed hair that's poofing up at the roots.

"Oklahoma is a hick town. It's filled with those good ol' boys who like to wear sheets and scare people. Momma told me all about it. You best be careful. They don't think like we do." She flips her hair, her light brown skin glowing in the sun.

"Man, shut up, high yella. There you go again, talking that mess. You forget Dally's a white boy, un guero. He'll fit in just fine." Marco enunciates with a faux Southern accent, making the three giggle.

"I'm gonna miss you guys, you know. I doubt Oklahoma got red beans and rice, Cuban style."

"I wish you could read so I can send you my address and you can write to us. Come visit us when you get the money. We'll still be here." Delilah's green eyes flicker over to him. Marco claps his hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah. We'll be around."

"Dallas!"

His father.

"I think it's time for me to leave." He leaves the stoop, giving his friends a sad look before making his way for the van.

"Wait!"

Delilah embraces him.

"Don't you ever change, not for nobody." She says in his ear.

He leaves, the dull static of the radio and his father's lectures about his friends in German fading away as he looks out at his window and watches the boroughs, the streets, the town and the smells leave him.

He will never forget New York.

"What the hell were you thinking, provoking the cops like that? If I hadn't leapt in front of that police car and tackled you I don't know what I'd…"

Dallas opens his eyes and is blinded by white light. He's in a holding cell of sorts, nursing a broken arm and a splitting headache. His father had been cursing and berating him in angry German while his friends look on in horror and confusion.

He wishes he was dead.

"Dallas Winston, you're quite popular here."

"Shut up, porky. What charge you got me on?"

"Possession of an illegal firearm, attempted robbery, and attempted assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon."

"That heater ain't even loaded."

"You think we care?"

"Please, officer. It's been a long night. I come home from a long day at work and I'm exhausted. May I please speak to my son?" his father asks.

"If you like, Mr. Winston."

Mr. Winston looks over at his son, his blue eyes turning icy.

"You idiot! I've never thought you'd do this of all things just to prove how much of a fuck up you are! Robbery? Stealing my goddamn gun and pointing it at a fucking cop? If your mother were alive I'd ask her if she dropped you on your head as an infant!"

" Shut the fuck up, old man. Don't act like you care now that I almost died."

"I always cared for you, you ungrateful brat! Every penny I made went to the house, the bills, the food on the table! You think it's easy raising a teenager who is driving me to an early grave from the many nights seeing you in jail? Filing out reports and scraping enough cash to bail you out?"

"Who said I wanted you to? You knew I made my own money at the rodeos."

"Rodeos!" He booms, laughing a dark laugh and looking over at Dallas's friends to see if they're in on the joke. "He says 'I made my own money at the rodeos'!" he mocks, eyes twinkling with sarcasm.

"The rodeos! What are you, some hillbilly now? Some wannabe cowboy riding off into the sunset?"

"It's the only honest thing I do for money that I like, Father. You'd have known had you actually visited and watched me ride."

"What the hell are you guys saying? Where's a goddamn translator when you need him?" Two-Bit cries, tearing at his hair.

"In true American fashion, lazy hillbilly doesn't want to learn a language and wants it hand-fed to him." Mr. Winston mutters.

"Don't start. You've been living in America for over 30 years, old man. You should know they don't speak German here."

"Fair enough."

Mr. Winston looks over at his friends once more.

"My name is Franz Winston, Dallas's father. I believe we haven't met. I'd prefer if we met on…different circumstances, but life has a funny way of changing plans."

He laughs a bitter laugh and shakes his head.

"What have they done to you, my son?"

Dallas has an uncanny habit of getting his way.

Despite the charges stacked against him, he got lucky; the robbery charge was dropped because there wasn't enough monetary value stolen for it to be considered robbery (he left the cash right by the door and booked it), because the gun was registered in his father's name and it isn't loaded, that charged was dropped as well. The only remaining charge was attempted assault, but that charge didn't hold much weight; they still needed to punish him for giving the police grief. The sentence was relatively light: 30 days in the cooler with the possibility for getting out on good behavior.

Dallas smirked as his favorite cop turns cherry red and his fat finger glides over his neck.

He kisses at him.

"Things are going to change around here, Dallas. You are going to be an adult in a matter of weeks and you need to start being a productive member of society."

Dallas rolls his eyes. Not again.

They had this conversation before: his father would make an empty promise about being more involved in his life and making Dallas turn his life around for the better, only to falter and let his son run wild because apparently work is more important than family. And then, like clockwork, Dallas would be thrown back in jail and once he gets out, he makes those empty promises again.

"This time I'm serious."

It's almost verbatim.

"Cut the father act, old man. I know you don't keep your promises." He barks.

"Son, I'm doing the best I can but I work. You may not understand, but it cost money to keep this house afloat and put food on the table. Would you rather we be homeless and out on the street?"

"But is it worth missing birthdays, Christmases, father-son bonding over playing ball? The many nights I'd come home to an empty house? What's the point of working for a house that you don't even live in?"

"It's part of the American Dream, Dallas. You work for the nice house, the white picket fence, the happy family and the glory of the red, white, and blue. That's the main reason I left Germany and came here."

"The American Dream is a lie, Pop. We're the poorest people in town, on the wrong side of the tracks, struggling to get by even with you working double the hours you worked in New York. Being poor isn't part of the American Dream."

"You don't know poor! This is the richest thing in the world compared to my years in Germany! Back then, money was worthless; we used it as wallpaper and fuel for fire on those cold days. You don't know the true pain of receiving letters of loved ones dying in gas chambers, friends you've grown up with ripped away by death and destruction, family scattered everywhere in the world for safety and never hearing from them again. You don't know what it's like to be cold in the worst of winters and have nothing to keep you warm but the books you had to burn and the memories that burned with it.

"This country's little grievances mean nothing to what I've experienced. Here, you have a chance. You have a voice. You have a reason to keep moving on. You wake up every day and work hard to pay a debt to this country, to earn your right of being an American. You were born in this privilege; you never experienced the hardships that me and the parents of your mother experienced." He looked over at his son, "You need to be thankful for what you have and not let it go to waste."

"I don't need your lectures about how I should be thankful to be in this awful place. Have you not watched the news? People are getting drafted left and right to fight some Orientals in 'Nam. Some of my friends are coming back with missing limbs and some not at all. They're picking the poorest bastards to draft and let me tell you, old man. I'm next."

For once in what feels like forever, Dallas watches his father's face go pale.

"Let's prepare for when that day comes," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Right now, let's work on getting you a job."