Member-only story
Not Learning to Hate
Breaking the cycle
I’ve mentioned my father several times in my Medium articles. He was not the best father. However, he did not have the best role-model in my grandfather.
Pop did fight his way through D Day in the 29th Division and, thankfully, for me and my sister, survived to marry our mother and have two daughters. I’m sure he would have rather had sons, but such is the roll of the dice.
On Father’s Day I try to think about what he taught me — archery — he loved bow hunting and he taught me how to use a bow– I didn’t hunt — only shot at targets.
The other thing he tried to teach me was hate –hate for Negroes — only he didn’t call them Negroes or blacks or anything familiar other than the “N-word.” Somehow I didn’t learn that lesson.
I didn’t understand his feelings — the hate — I didn’t get it.
Trying to make me hate, too…
I was in an integrated school system and I had friends who weren’t white. I didn’t care. For some reason, the hatred swept over me and didn’t land. There was one, a young man, who I helped with his studies. In my yearbook he’d written “Love” before signing his name. When Pop saw that he went ballistic and accused me of everything — fat girl who never had a date in high school was suddenly sleeping with a N — — . I reminded my…
