My Dad Was A Racist ( For The Unknown Man )

I was born in December of 62' in the great state of Minnesota.

My Mom was a native Minnesotan from a political family, Democrats the lot of them. 

My Dad was from the south in the dry county of Murray, Kentucky to parents who were so poor that he and his brother slept in the barn and had only one pair of shoes each year. 

My childhood was not a childhood, but rather a testimony to how much the spirit of a little girl could endure.

I'm  not sure how to begin telling my story but, I am the only one left to tell it,  although I wasn't the only one who endured torment daily in my world. My Mom and my two sisters also bared witness to and scars from the hate that festered in the very walls of our house and it wasn't the house's fault that it hurt to call it home. 

Everything we did in our lives revolved around so many whirlpools of conflict that I get dizzy thinking about it. We had, of course the never ending cycle of violence that came with living with Dad. There was the political climate of our time that gave way to women wanting what was their  right, the racial riots, Vietnam, and even something as mundane as the outfits my sisters wanted to wear. 

All of these issues incited rage in Dad at everyone and everything.  

We never knew what would set him off so we lived our lives as though there were a cobra silently slithering from room to room never knowing when, where or who it would strike.  

I loved Dad and Mom in spite of the dark energy that hovered above because of their choices. 

I envied other kids who lived in suburban homes with their nice parents and their luck. 

It's difficult to say that I don't regret my childhood because it defines the woman I am, but oh what an even better woman I would be if I had a different story to tell. 

My Dad was an admirer of the Klan and was relentless in his racial jokes and hate. 

He would loudly proclaim that he liked black people, that every decent white family should have at least two chained to their trees out back. 

He held no punches when it came to women, Asian or Latin people and even as I write I want to tell you what he really called various human beings but I'm afraid. My dad's mind and soul were hideous and he always seemed to be oblivious to his torment of others. 

I remember times so long ago when dad would take me with him to run errands with his "Buddies". 

They would talk openly about the things they did and they were going to do and I pray the young black man they talked in nervous shock about killing was only just talk or perhaps my imagination. I dreamed many decades later about that young black man and my mother was with me in the dream guiding and directing me to look at the scene on the side of a rural road. Dad and his buddies were behaving as though they had  just hit a Deer and was trying to put the dying creature out of it's misery. I know my mom brought me there in my dreams for a reason, but have yet to know what that would be. 

I really am ok with how my life played out. I know it's because I can handle it and because I  possess an 'Awareness' that so many do not. I'm not one to dwell and I carry no shame of who I came from. 

My Dad was a racist because he chose to be long before I was born. I will not accept responsibility for the actions of those who came before me, I will not allow anyone to demand  I plead guilty for the actions of others. I am sorry for all the violence leveled on people of color, but I am not the one dispensing it. If I realize an injustice I most certainly without hesitation will stop it or at least rise up against those who bring about the violence. Yes, my Dad was a racist and I have already paid for his sins.