This is an opinion column.

It even took me a minute. A few years, actually, to figure it out. To understand what all the fuss was about. Though “fuss” isn’t the right word. It doesn’t quite do justice to the Classicness of it all.

When I moved to Birmingham now almost a decade ago, I’d never heard of the Magic City Classic.

Now before some of y’all start convening Black Card Court, hear me out.

As many of you know, I grew up in Oklahoma—while in many ways southern, it ain’t the South—and didn’t attend an HBCU. My mother did; Langston University was the best option for Black kids in the state born in the early 1900s. By the time my generation was completing high school in the 1970s, PWIs (not sure the term predominantly white institution existed then) were clamoring for Black kids. I ultimately went west to Stanford in the Bay Area, 1.643 miles from the closest HBCU. Which would be Langston.

Not even the Divine 9 had yet ventured that far west, though I am happy to say four members of the esteemed and historic institutions are firmly planted on the Farm.

Maybe I should’ve had an inkling about the Classic. My then-wife was from Tuskegee and our family spent many holidays there. But Tuskegee folks care more about Auburn and the Iron Bowl than the Classic. A lot more.

I can’t recall how many years it took for me to finally get the Classic. My first included a classic rookie mistake—I parked wrong. Caught in this massive glut of traffic around Legion Field, I believe this towel-waving guy who said if I parked right here on this grass, I won’t let you get blocked in.

Most of y’all know how that ended.

Oh, maybe this is where I explain to anyone still wondering exactly what the Classic is—it’s the annual regular-season game between Alabama A&M in Huntsville and Alabama State in Montgomery, two prodigious members of the proud SWAC (Southwest Athletic Conference).

I knew little about either team (See: above), had neither a bulldog nor a hornet in this hunt. Yet I quickly discovered neither mattered. Discovered I was not alone. Discovered that for a vast number among the thousands that pilgrimage to Birmingham’s long-beleaguered westside annually on the last Saturday in October, the Classic wasn’t about the outcome of an encounter between two rival football teams.

It was about a city that endured through storms and trials. About a culture of music, style, spices, and flavors you can whiff from a mile away.

It was about halftime. About the show.

About the fellowship. About the party.

I discovered this, too: White people don’t come.

Of course, some do—mostly white leaders of companies writing checks to help pay for the day, white city council members (and only recently a couple of their Jefferson County commission counterparts) or city employees, and increasingly white students who attend A&M or ASU.

Over the mountain might as well be the Rockies on the last Saturday in October for as many whites as venture to Classic.

Indeed, for years, I’d ask a random white someone in, oh, Vestavia Hills whether they were going to the Classic and it quickly became clear they were clueless. I believe white awareness is better now, but attendance? Still a whiteout.

Why? Why would anybody pass on the city’s biggest party, and best show (not talking about the game) all year?

Blame history and its incurable misconceptions. Blame the unfortunate vestiges of the region’s past, the lingering, rank aroma of white flight, which seeded a sense of fear (Not going to that side of town!). And of separation, which is still harbored by some on both sides of the mountain.

Well, that’s for them.

This is ours.

It’s a two-way roadblock to nowhere.

Now, I’m not dreaming of a white Classic, so still no need to summon the Black Card judges. Just encouraging the same folks who had a blast hauling their families downtown in the summer to cheer on the Birmingham Stallions—while grumbling about parking—to haul their families to the west side on the last Saturday in October for an even bigger blast with music, style, spices, and flavors you can whiff from a mile away.

You’ll still grumble about the parking, but someone will likely feed you fresh from their grill.

Just don’t go anywhere at halftime. If you do, you may never figure it out.

More columns by Roy S. Johnson

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Remembering Rep. Barbara Jordan

I’m a Pulitzer Prize finalist for commentary, a member of the National Association of Black Journalists Hall of Fame, and winner of the Edward R. Murrow prize for podcasts for “Unjustifiable,” co-hosted with John Archibald. My column appears in AL.com, as well as the Lede. Check out my new podcast series “Panther: Blueprint for Black Power,” which I co-host with Eunice Elliott. Subscribe to my free weekly newsletter, The Barbershop, here. Reach me at [email protected], follow me at twitter.com/roysj, or on Instagram @roysj