(10 minute read)
As I write this, I am visiting my dad in Kentucky. He moved here 5 years ago, and this is my first time being in his new home. I live in Southern California and grew up in Las Vegas, NV.
I am visiting my dad to surprise him for his 50th birthday. His wife set up a birthday party for him at their home in Williamstown. The only stores in Williamstown are Wal-Mart and a small local grocery shop where you’ll almost certainly run into someone you know (as I found out when we went there.) Williamstown is the definition of a “small town.” By this, I mean properties are acres wide, it is not uncommon for families to all share one piece of land, and every one in the entire town says hello to each other. Every. One. It is as if time has stood still here. I have never experienced anything like this life before.
The first person that I meet after surprising my dad is a nine-year-old boy. He is my dad and his wife’s next door neighbor. He looks like a nine-year-old version of my twenty-one-year old brother. He has a big head and bright brown eyes. He’s a little chubby. His name is Greyson. He has a dog named Peanut Butter.
His parents live in a trailer in his grandparents’ yard. He typically stays at his grandma’s house, since his parents aren’t always available to him. He has never been to a real school before. He says he is too scared to go to school because of all the school shootings he has seen on TV. He also told me he didn’t know how to read. Greyson has developed a very strong relationship with my dad. My dad hangs out with him as much as he can. He will wait on the steps next door for my dad to get home. He told my dad, (my almost 50 year old dad), that he is his best friend. I really like Greyson and we are friends instantly.
Greyson knows very little away from what he knows.
I took Greyson to the nearby grocery store to buy cigarettes for my dad and his wife, and some chew cut beef jerky for Greyson. We talk about a lot of things. He tells me he is a Kentucky boy and will stay there for his whole life. He wants to be a farmer when he grows up. He talks a lot about singing, too. He loves to sing.
My curiosity about how a small town Kentucky kid is raised causes me to bring up a more loaded topic:
I ask him, “Greyson… want to know what you, me, that guy over there, and the cashier all have in common?”
He says, “What?”
I say, “Underneath all of our skin colors, whether we’re black, brown, white, orange, pink, we’re all the exact same. See we’re all humans. You get that, right?”
He agrees.
Later that day, as we are walking down Wal-Mart’s Mexican food aisle, my dad’s wife mentions mine and my dad’s heritage (Mexican), and Greyson is shocked!
He says, “What! You’re a MEXICAN?”
I answer, “Yes, Greyson, I am 100% Mexican.”
He says, “I thought you were American.”
“Well, I am American. I am a Mexican-American.”
I hear Greyson whisper into my dad’s wife’s ear, “I thought she was one of us.”
I heard Greyson and I reminded him what we talked about earlier. He vaguely understood, but he still couldn’t believe that his best friend, my dad, and I are Mexican… the same Mexican race that the media portrays as imposters and savages. The Mexicans he has been warned to stay away from his whole life from his family members.
Flash forward to my dad’s party: His wife and I are sitting outside on the porch as a huge black ford truck pulls up to their grass paved driveway. A large big bellied man approaches me as his friend waits by the truck and asks me where my dad Noah is. My first thought, is “Oh no, is my dad going to want to fight this guy?” (You understand this if you know my dad.) But I hope I’m wrong and they are just his friends.
He has jeans on and boots. He has tattoos all up his arms and back, and as I glance at his right arm, I notice a large Nazi swastika tattoo. I see it and judge him. I look at my dad’s wife as he steps away and I ask her why in the world someone would still have something like that. It astounds me to see that this kind of racism can still exist in the world.
I have heard that racism is rampant in Middle America, and while I’ve experienced racism here and there, a Nazi tattoo is ludicrous to me. You can tell these guys grew up around here, in a small town in Kentucky, which I’m starting to realize is worlds away from the diverse land of Southern California I’ve grown accustomed to.
A silent anger toward this guy and his Nazi tattoo grows inside me. I play a game of Cornhole with them at one point, but I can’t help but ignore his horrible and permanent mark on his body. It disgusts me. This guy and his friend end up staying at the party for awhile and singing happy birthday with us. They actually make for good company and new friends for my dad. They end up leaving for a bit, and coming back with a 24 pack of beer, rolling up in a different truck. One with a Confederate flag.
As I see this new truck approaching, the anger and disapproval inside me stirs again. A Confederate flag? You’ve got to be kidding me. Before I get upset all over again about something I cannot control…
I decide to consider the day I just had. I think about how much fun my dad had with these guys and how they made my dad’s party more fun just by their presence.
My dad tells me while they were playing Cornhole, one of the guys made a racist comment. My dad had told them that he is Mexican. They react, confused, like nine-year-old Greyson did with me.
“Well, are you serious man?” Tattoo guy asks.
“Yes, I speak Spanish.”
“Well, you’re a real cool guy Noah. I thought you’d be American.”
In response to tattoo guy, “Do you have a girl?”
“Yes.”
“What does she look like?”
“Well uh, she’s my age, early thirties, blue eyes, blonde hair.”
“Okay, well what if I said I hate all blue eyed, blonde haired woman in their early thirties… so I hate her?”
“Well that ain’t make no sense.”
“Right, just like you can’t hate someone because of the color of the skin or what they look like. That’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m brown and you like me. Right?”
“Well… Yeah, I guess, I see that. You are a real cool guy.”
“Alright then.”
–
As I drive to my hotel room later that night, I think about what I experienced in Williamstown, Kentucky.
I have been doing a lot of work on different kinds of “loving kindness” meditations lately. This is to help me in not getting agitated with people, because I know the only person that hurts is myself. I’ve also been doing my best to not be overly opinionated or judgmental; or to think that my way of doing things is the only way. It isn’t easy.
The green Kentucky trees fly by me in my rental car. There is little civilization around and peace in the stillness of the night. I am pondering this other life I have lived here…
Okay, so we have two early 30-something guys who clearly have racism issues. I see them respond to race in the exact same way as my new nine-year-old friend.
–
What this tells me is that this racism issue is still alive because not only are these people believing what their parents and grandparents have told them (like most of us probably have before), but they stop learning or being open to new things at a very young age. They believe everything the TV says is law. They believe the plan of their lives is already set in stone, so why learn anything new?
Am I mad at this sweet nine-year-old boy? Of course not! Do I believe that because he knows my (Mexican) dad and me, he will change his mind about race? I certainly do. But will every kid growing up in these small country towns have that opportunity? No, sadly they won’t. They will grow up knowing only what they know. They will grow up just like the two men at my dad’s party, and never will get to know a person of color.
–
I had never felt the sting of racism until last year when someone made me feel inferior because of the color of my skin. They made me feel lesser because I was Mexican. I felt I wasn’t enough. It felt helpless. I had never had this kind of feeling in my adult life; Like something was wrong with me because of the color of my skin. It scared the shit out of me.
Since 4th grade, I was surrounded by white people in a private school. I got used to it and in my head, I practically was white. There was an amount of shame I attributed to being Mexican because I was made fun of as a kid. I never realized this affected me until I discovered it during talk therapy as an adult. I have battled with my own racism issues before too, which I can only be sorry about now. Experiencing Kentucky and the reality of discrimination made it so much more important to me to be a proud standing Mexican.
–
I have seen so much hate come from discrimination. The current United States’ government is making life harder for people of color. The Trump administration creates hate. It only furthers the hate of these “small town” people. The people being discriminated against begin to hate those people that hate them, and the hate just stirs the hate, the hate, the hate.
I wanted to hate these guys. My first instinct was to hate them. And I did a bit. I thought deeper though and I remembered that hate cannot fight hate. Racism is wrong, yes. Most of us know that. For these small town country kids, just like Greyson, they grow up only knowing the people around them. The hate is forced into their fragile minds as children. The people around them are white. They are taught that not white is wrong. This is all they know.
Only when we abandon “us” from “them” will we ever be able to move forward in our crisis against racism.
“Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.”
-Martin Luther King, I have a Dream Speech
I don’t know if this will reach people who have discriminatory views. I hope it does. This is for those of you who don’t discriminate, too. To hate the racist ones only further enforces their views and contributes to the anger, to the fear.
To love them and try to reach them with patience is the only way to create lasting change. If we love them like my dad loves Greyson, whose views are progressing, then more “Greysons” will spread.
The love will catch fire, not the hate.
Before I left, I took Greyson to the Wal-Mart and told him I’d buy him a book. He chose a short story Star Wars book. We practiced reading. He told me he’d promise he’d read it, and next time I come we can buy him a more advanced book. I hope Greyson becomes thirsty for more knowledge and the world will open up to him.
By spreading knowledge and love, we can change the world. We need compassion though. We can’t point fingers or no one will listen and we, ourselves, will be in a negative state, too.
What if I hated those guys at my dad’s birthday? It may have ruined the day. What if my dad responded to their negative comments with force instead of rationality? This would have further reinforced their view of the Mexican race. What if I yelled at Greyson and scolded him for sharing his view of the world? He wouldn’t have wanted to be my friend.
Do you think they would have listened if we fought their beliefs with hate? No, only through togetherness, will we be able to get through to people that do not know any different.
I gave Greyson my address so he can write me letters. I’ll do the same. I hope he keeps reading, singing, and learning. I trust that Greyson will grow up to be a good kid with a kind heart. I pray he’ll keep learning. I hope my Mexican dad can help these people around him understand the world a little different.
I hope I made a difference in Greyson’s life, like he did mine. I love that little guy.
Greyson Sandlin & Lexie Aguirre
Or as Greyson calls me, The Neighbor’s Daughter
Sunday, June 24th 2018
Williamstown, Kentucky
Population: 3,925