Hi, dad. It's been a while. Six years next month since you died. I have something to say to you. On Monday, October 20, 2008, I will be in line for early voting, here in Colorado. I will be voting for an African-American candidate, Barack Obama, for president.
This would have driven you to apoplexy. If you were alive today, and know how I had voted, I would have seen your face turn red, your eyes harden. I would have seen the boiling fury of your racism just below the surface.
I never understood you dad. We almost never talked, certainly never about anything that truly mattered. Football, your bi-annual new car purchase and the weather were about the extent of our conversations. Through many years of therapy, and talks with mom since you died, I've come to understand that you did not have the emotional capacity to make a connection.
But I still don't understand your racism. I'm sure you didn't either.
I grew up in an all white, post-WWII suburb in middle America. I never saw an African-American until I was six or seven, when one of the neighbors hired a part-time housecleaner. And even then, I only saw her enter or leave their house, a few times a month. My first exposure to your irrational hatred came when I was maybe 11 or 12. Remember? We were at a four-way stop, the car to the right had right-of-way, but the driver wasn't sure, and waited for you. You waived him through, and as his car passed ours, you saw an AA driving. "Stupid n*****, doesn't know how to drive. Shouldn't be allowed to drive" or some other such stupidity was what I remember you saying.
I remember sitting in the back seat, totally shocked, and wondering what a person's skin color had to do with ANYTHING.
About the same time, the civil rights movement began, and scenes were on the TV, showing people of all races marching together; marching for the right to vote, for dignity, to be treated no differently than any other American.
More than anything on the screen, I remember watching you. Watching you, purple faced, as you railed against the effrontery of "them".
As I got into my teen years, and, like many teens, began testing the limits of my growth, and my relationship with you, I remember once asking you why you felt the way you do about African-Americans.
You told me a story. I remember it very well.
It was 1942, you had joined the Army shortly after December 7th, and were at your training base. The Army then was tightly segreated, barracks, training facilities, mess hall.
One day, you and a friend had decided to have some fun. The two of you went to the "colored" mess hall and ordered hamburgers. As the faces stared at the two of you, you snickered at them. You entering and ordering in "their" mess hall was showing contempt, showing your supposed superiority to "them", showing that you had the power and there was nothing that could be done.
And then your burgers came, and you and your friend took off the buns to add mustard, or catsup, or whatever. And there, on top of each burger, was a dead cockroach.
And then you and your friend looked up, and saw that there was no escape. Everyone in that mess hall knew what was on your burger, and knew that you were going to eat it.
And so you and your friend sat there, humiliated, and finished every bite.
And that, you told me, was why you "hated the n*****s", and alway would.
I sat for a while, thinking, then asked one question.
What would have happened, dad, if several "colored" troops had come to the white mess hall to eat. Your answer was sharp and short. They would have been taken out back, beaten, and possibly killed.
I didn't say anything else, knowing that I would never be able to point out the ludicrous dichotomy of you being forced to eat a cockroach, vs a "colored" serviceman being killed, simply for showing up to eat in a white mess.
When I left for the service, in 1967, your "advice" to me included "Don't bring a girl home pregnant, and never bring a n***** in the house. After boot camp, during gunnery training at the Great Lakes naval training center north of Chicago, one of my best friends was AA. Over time, I told him about my father, and about his "never bring a n***** in the house".
And so one day, my friend and I showed up at my father's house. You welcomed us, sat down, and had a nice conversation with my friend.
Typical of an 18 year old, I suppose. Challenging the father figure, asserting independence.
But more than that, trying to show you, in some small way, that there is no difference in us. Race doesn't matter.
And Tuesday, November 4th, America will prove that race doesn't matter (although racism still matters), as we elect the first African-American as president.
I somehow wish you were still alive to see this moment.
I would want to look at your face. What would I have seen there, dad? The purple face of hatred?
Or just a touching of understanding?
With love,
Your son.