Whether we want to admit it or not, hate is something that many of us grew up around - just it was not blatant. It was woven into the fabric of the times.I know I have been exposed to it and by some people I greatly loved.
I was born in California but my childhood was spent largely growing up in Evanston, IL - during the early to mid 70s. Around 1977 we moved 10 miles west from Evanston to Des Plaines. Both suburbs of Chicago and both were extremely diverse with cultures, races, and religions. A true melting pot. Even so, I was exposed to racism.
I can remember being about 8 years old and begging my mother for a black Barbie doll. I wanted one so that when my best friend came over to play we could pretend that the Barbies I had were us as adults. My mother's response never made sense to me -"No, you're white so you play with white Barbies." That response bothered me on many levels - 1) I cried for my friend. 2) I didn't understand it- how come I could have a friend who was black but not a doll? Even my mother had friends who were black. I didn't know the meaning nor the word hypocrisy back then, and that is probably a good thing as knowing myself I would have used it and been severely punished for doing so. Rather than arguing with my mother I secretly took a brown marker to one of my dolls and hid it from her.
My mother tended to be very outspoken and quite frankly hurtful to people of the Hindu faith. I cannot tell you how many times I left stores and her behind at the register because I knew there would be a scene. And, again, it never made sense to me as she also was kind to neighbors of ours who were Hindu.
I really believe my mother didn't see her attitudes as racist.
The same goes for my Grandfather (my father's father). Someone who identified himself as Aus Prussian. He rarely had kind words for Polish, Russian, and Jewish people - but once again, like my mother, he also had friends and neighbors who were the cultures of the very people he spoke negatively about (behind doors) even though he was friends with those neighbors and truly enjoyed their company.
I can remember one time in the early 80s when my grandparents lived with us. My friend was staying at our house for a couple of days. We were in the living room as my Grandfather descended the stairs and in German, he told my Grandmother to get the black girl off his couch. Unfortunately, I understood every word he said- thankfully, my friend did not. I hurried up and suggested that we go outside for a while and play. My Grandmother smiled at me - I think she knew - I knew, and was also uncomfortable about the exchange that just had occurred.
Grandpa wasn't evil, stern-maybe, but not evil. His comments were more like knee jerk reactions and had nothing to do with the person on a personal level. Those reactions were something that had been woven into the fabric of him, and probably stem from his youth back in Germany (Prussia) in the late 1800s and early 1900s.
Fast forward some years when I was a young woman planning my wedding, I was once again exposed to racism all because I wanted that friend from my childhood to be part of my wedding party, a bridesmaid. My groom-to-be's father was blatant with his racism- he was from Hazard County Kentucky and did not mince his words when he found out my plans. That conversation over their kitchen table did not turn out well. It ended with me storming out of their house and our wedding ended up taking place in Las Vegas - I needed health insurance for an upcoming surgery and the disagreement over my childhood friend cinched those plans for a wedding away from drama and earlier than originally planned.
While my exposure to racism was as a witness my heart always cried for my friend. I found myself often wondering what it must be like for her to face such attitudes and far more than she ever did by people who liked her, my family. I couldn't imagine walking through life like that, always a target for hate.
That is why when my eldest child came out of the closet to me, my heart cried. I knew living openly where we lived, rural Wisconsin, was going to be tough on him. My greatest fear for him was how others would treat him. On one hand I was so proud of him for living his truth but on the other hand the mom in me wanted to wrap a protective blanket of love around him- sheltering from the hate I knew he would have to contend with.
Bless his sweet innocent soul, he found the strength to live openly. And, yes, he was forced to deal with hate and ignorance. Some of those times were while he was working. Once a man came up to him at the store he worked at and told him if he was his son he would beat his ass for being a "faggot." Another time was when he was on break and standing outside, a group of young men made threatening comments his way, while they stood by a pick-up truck- one of them wearing a bright read MAGA cap. That night my son came home with fear in him. Fear of what was happening in our country. It is because of that I also suggested that he move with his younger brother to a metropolitan city that had an LGBTQ community he could align himself with and find the comfort he needed with others who understood his path.
I am deeply troubled by listening to others claim racism doesn't exist. That hate is a thing of the past. It is still all around us, woven into that fabric of generations walking this land that is our country. It is just not so blatant at times and far less obvious when you're not the intended target. My own exposure to it is mainly as a bystander and not the actual target.
Think back to the comments you heard growing up - the stereotypes you were taught- and if you're not in that target community just imagine what it is like to be. How it is magnified, the exposure, when you are that target. Racism is real, it always has been. Don't bury your head in the sand to it. Realize how terrifying recent events are to those who are the targets of hate in their homeland. I applaud those standing up to it all.
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