I am the older of two children. I have a brother 3 1/2 years my junior. In all aspects we couldn’t be more different. He is tall and lanky; I am short and curvy. He listens to rap and hip hop; I prefer country and rock and roll. He dropped out of high school and barely got a GED; I graduated early and went on to get my Bachelor’s degree. It is hard to believe we were raised by the same two parents and in the same household. Nurture versus nature be damned. Maybe its all about birth order. Maybe its gender bias. I always thought he was mom’s favorite and he always thought that I was Dad’s favorite. We were probably both right. My brother was a little to irreverent for my Dad and I think Mom always secretly liked that. She was a Daddy’s little girl once too.
Looking back know, I think maybe I tried hard to please my conservative, traditional father and in succeeding, I ended up alienating my mother and driving my brother into resentment. The more he rebelled and misbehaved, the better I was in my father’s eyes. That is until lo and behold, Daddy’s little girl brought home a “brown” boyfriend.
Yes, he was brown. His father was black and him mother is Italian and I loved him with all my 16 year old heart. Unfortunately for us, this was one of the many things of which my father didn’t approve. He would say he wasn’t racist per se, but just didn’t believe in the mixing of the races. At 16 I didn’t see the problem with this logic. The problem I saw was that he just didn’t know Kris. Kris wasn’t a gang banging thug like the blacks I’d been warned about. Kris was not like that, Daddy. He was raised solely by his mother. He was just like us. He was raised white.
I was at my parent’s house this last weekend and someone brought up the topic of racism in their small town. I remember my Mom’s dad had been a vocal racist. I recalled one occasion when I was in grade school when my own father had to pull his father in law aside and ask him not to say “nigger” in front of the kids. “I just can’t have them repeating that at school Tom. It would ruin my career.”
My mom spoke up in defense of her father. He didn’t mind the blacks, she said, as long as they knew their place. Tom’s problem it seems was not with the Negroes his daughter befriended, but instead with a far more insidious threat: the gingers. Mom recalled an occasion from her childhood when she was seen loitering at the park with a group of friends of assorted race and gender. Her father happened to drive by and see them. (See, right here I thought I knew where this story was going. Just wait.) He stopped his truck and ordered his daughter home right away. When she got there, she got the “third degree” over just who was that little red haired boy. When mom explained that he was just a friend from school, Tom wouldn’t hear any of it. “You stay clear of them red-heads, you hear? They’re nothing but trouble!” How ridiculous! We all laughed that one would judge a whole group of people based solely on the color of their hair. Tom’s own mother had been a ginger even.
Grandpa Tom has been gone for 12 years now. He never got to know my son. I chuckle to think what he would have to say about my little ginger and his Negro friends. Nature versus nurture be damned indeed.
doodleoutloud 