Who I am and where I play

The poker world can sometimes be a funny place, and that was my reaction to the Hawaiian Gardens Casino the first time I went there. I’ve been playing there exclusively recently because it’s a great place. But when I first walked in I had my doubts. First of all you have to know a few things about me to understand my reaction. I’m a 65-year-old Black Man who was born and raised in the Deep South in the forties, fifties, and early sixties. Back then they still had colored only restrooms, water fountains, and Jim Crow school systems. The only poker games available were the private games run by the local Cracker Boys, and the only Spades they wanted to see were the one’s in the deck. That meant that I never played poker until I went to CA. in the early seventies and the only place to play then was Gardena. The Jewish people weren’t as prejudiced as the Crackers, but they still didn’t care for Blacks. Gardena was a tough place to play. If they opened under the gun you knew they had trips. I had a tough time my first year before I wised up and learned to play. But they were nice to me, because I was a producer. After I started winning they weren’t nearly as nice. By then, in addition to learning how to play poker, I also learned to tolerate their shit. It just rolled off like water on a ducks back. I played part time for a number of years because I also went to law school and became an attorney. 

     This allowed me to purchase a home in Santa Monica, the last bastion of White Supremacy here in Southern CA. where I am retired and still live today. I was one of the few Blacks who lived in Santa Monica and the police were always stopping me. Eventually they figured out I was one of them, except for being Black, and they stopped bothering me. Today I don’t mind Santa Monica’s finest because they keep the street people out. All the street people live in Venice, which isn’t a bastion of White Supremacy. In fact it has a few enclaves of White people, but mostly it’s street people and Mexicans, and a lot of beat up campers parked on the streets. Since I’m middle class I don’t mind if the police keep the garbage out of Santa Monica. 

     To get on with this I’m now retired and decided to take up tournament poker because I’ve always wanted to. I’m no Phil Ivy, (no pun intended) and I don’t plan to compete with the heavyweights, at least not yet. I’ll never forget how bad that first year in Gardena was, and I don’t want to compete with Phil Helmuth, Phil Ivy, Doyle, Howard, Annie, and all the other hot shot pros, at least not until I get a couple of years experience at the lower level and see how I do. It’s better to lose $100 buy in tournaments for a year than to go to Vegas and lose several big ones. Even though I could afford to do that why give money away needlessly?

     Anyway back to what this has to do with the Hawaiian Gardens Casino. I walked in there on a Sunday afternoon and all I saw were Oriental people. Oh shit, I said to myself. I hope they allow Blacks to play here. I was concerned. When I parked in the lot and walked in it didn’t look like a bad neighborhood, but once inside that was another matter. Visions of Jim Crow danced in my head the minute I walked in. But since nobody came up to me and said, excuse me sir, we don’t allow Colored in here, I decided to take my chances and walk around and look it over. As I walked around I noticed all the Bosses were White Boys, and figured that was as it was supposed to be. Then I noticed one or two Blacks at the tables. Well, apparently we’re allowed to play here, I thought to myself. 

     I screwed up my courage and went back on a Wednesday afternoon to play in the 1:00 p.m. tournament and walked up to the desk to buy in. I handed the Boss my buy in and he gave me a seat card, no big deal, just like I was one of the locals. I played in the tournament and nobody seemed to notice I was Black. In fact everybody there seems to be a compulsive gambler, and that’s all they care about. Anyway it’s turned out to be a great place to play. 

All things considered things have turned out well in my life, except for the five marriages. But I’ll get to that in a minute. 

     The first thing lets dispose of is my childhood and early adult years in Crackerville. I grew up in one of the deep Southern States, doesn’t matter which one, because they are all the same. The thing that saved me was I was aware from my very earliest memories that it was the asshole of creation and if the Good Lord, or Gawd, as he was called there, wanted to give the earth an enema that’s where he would have stuck the hose. I got the hell out of that part of the world just as soon as I could get a car, and I’ve never looked back. I would never locate in that part of the world again or even drive through it for any reason. Among other things the weather is terrible. If you go outside for any reason you start sweating like a pig immediately, because the humidity is 100%, except when it rains, and then it is higher. In other parts of the world they raise cockroaches that size for meat. All they did there was compete with us for our food supply. North Dakota and South Dakota are the iceboxes of this country and they don’t have any Black people there, but I’d live in one of those states before I’d live anywhere in the South again. I check up on my childhood state once in awhile on the Internet. I really think they should just call in an air strike and start over. The whole State is full of run down trailer parks full of raggedy ass White kids and adults with bad teeth. Methamphetamine manufacturing is the only industry. They fly the Confederate Flag and think the South shall rise again. When pigs fly the South shall rise again. They say the best revenge is living well and I’ve certainly done that. It’s like Robert Ringer said in one of his books, “the best thing you can do for the poor is to not be one of them.” I live in one of the best places in the world in a nice home and both of my children have graduated from two of the finest colleges and are doing well. 

     My five marriages were another matter, but truthfully I can’t say it was all my exes fault. It’s hard being married to a gambler. I remember one court hearing. My third wife suggested to the judge that he ask for my driver’s license. “Why should I do that Mrs. Jackson,” he asked. “Because I don’t know what that asshole even looks like anymore because I never see him,” she replied. “He spends all his time at the Goddamn card clubs in Gardena. I might as well not even have a husband.” But that’s just one of the hazards of being a gambler. The other one is always being broke. Avoiding one out of two isn’t bad. Now that you have my background let’s go to the next chapter.