I was raised in a culture of racists. I drank moonshine with them, I made moonshine with them, I picked cotton in the same field, I saw black people working for my Dad come to the back door and knock. I saw Black men on Sunday dressed for church. They would wear wing tip shoes, with razor slits in the stress areas. I was told the reason for this is those folks cant try on shoes in the store. So, if their estimates of size were too tight, theyd cut slits to relieve the pressure. I was in the back seat of a car driven by one of those racist bastards as a child when he swerved the car toward a gentle, kind, old black man walking on the shoulder, and his brother smacked the door on the passenger side with his hand to scare the pedestrian. I felt a revulsion inside me that I couldnt express then. I never rode with that boy again. I know what hate looks like. I know that I was really confused when, face to face, the best and kindest people I ever met were Southern Black folks of my youth. I hated picking cotton. The Hall family didnt hate it. They were our tenants, and they had rollicking fun doing the tasks. They were solid good people. I always noticed the Colored fountains were cleaner than the White fountains. I knew KKK people. I knew Black people. I liked the Black people. I wouldnt trade the Black folks in my life for every cracker peckerhead I ever met, and thats a lot of em.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 15:49:05 +0000
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