I was raised by a prejudiced, bigoted father who would make Archie Bunker look like a flaming liberal.
I was younger than 5 years old. My dad and his friends used to congregate aroung his garage to shoot the bull. One day a black man came along, stopped and had to ask for permission to “speak to the white man.” He was given “permission”. He then looked at my dad and said, “Your shirt is on fire”, which it was from a cigarette.
As young as I was, I felt sorry for the black guy because he had to ask for permission to speak.
When I entered the military I quickly learned. I now treat all people I meet with dignity and respect until they show to me that they deserve neither.
However, just from that experience described above, I can understand the hurt that stays with one for a lifetime because it still hurts me when I think about it. Because hurt does last a lifetime then you should hold no ill will toward your father. He’s a good man and raised a good son.
“I was raised by a prejudiced, bigoted father who would make Archie Bunker look like a flaming liberal.”
The times are changing with every generation. My folks were prejudiced to a point I know, but never let on too much. And growing up in a lilly-white community, I didn’t have to really think about the whole race thing, but I know that I am also prejudiced to a (lesser) degree.
My kids are growing up in a very racially diverse grade school and it is great to see how race is not even an issue. And I try to be careful about immediatly saying stuff like “This Johnny? Is he the black kid?” but “Johnny - is he the kid you sit with on the bus?” Some might think I’m being PC. I’m just trying to get past my habit of thinking of a kid’s skin-color as the first thing I think of - but instead what place that kid holds in my children’s lives.
With all the news with Obama and his preacher though even my kids are picking up on it, and I think trying to have to figure out the whole race issue. Hopefully they can just shrug it off and say “what the heck are those old folks talking about - lets go play”.
I lived a few of my early years in the segregated south. I was raised a proper gentleman. I showed my elders respect by always addressing them as Mr. Mrs. or Miss. For reasons I don't recall I was often left in the care of a black lady whose first name I don't recall. I think it was Esther so that's what I'll go with. I had some understanding of the segregation thing. the problem was that when I was in the care of Esther, I was instructed to call her "Mizz Esther", her first name. I knew that it had something to do with the color of her skin, but in my heart of hearts I knew it was wrong. Now I loved Esther. She was a neat lady. She taught me my ABC's. It bothered me to no end that I was addressing this wonderful lady, for whom I had so much love and respect, by her first name. Being more than a bit precocious, I figured out that she was married and her last name was Johnson, so I insisted on calling her Mrs.Johnson.
Fast forward to today. I have an older black co-worker Named Edna. She tells everyone to call her Mizz Edna. I still can't do it. She is my equal at work so I just call her Edna. Funny how things like that stick with you.