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How Did I NOT Grow Up Racist?
I really don’t know…
No, I really don’t know how I became someone who at least tries not to judge a person by their color.
As I see pictures of the protests across the country/world, it’s like having flashbacks to the late 1968s- after the deaths of Reverend King and then Robert Kennedy. The fires ignited by exhaustion of years of hate and discrimination. I remember my life before and after that year.
My father was a racist. I heard his terrible rants about the N — — s constantly, his hatred of the Civil Rights Movement, and any politician that worked on the new laws — especially anyone named “Kennedy.” Once he remarked about the President: “Someone should shoot that little Napoleon.” And on November 22, 1963 he got his wish.
Years of hearing his rants about people he didn’t know and didn’t want to know made only one impression on me — my father was inherently wrong. How did I know that? Did I have a teacher or a friend who showed me the difference? No — I can’t remember any one person or thing. I just knew he was wrong and I knew I didn’t want to follow his example.
As I got older I began to question his ideas which lead to huge arguments and threats of belt whippings. One of my friends, who happened to be black, wrote “love” before signing his name in my yearbook and I thought Pop would…
