The other half of the story

I wrote a draft last week about growing up in a neighborhood that could have charitably been called blue collar. I published part of it as "A Christmas Story in June?" but I initially shitcanned the other, more disturbing aspect: The racism I observed as a young person. I just wasn't in the mood to deal with it, until I read about Ago-go's struggles with the same issue. Even though I've always known that racism isn't exclusive to the South, to read of a woman from Canada being treated differently when she gets a little sun really brought home just how widespread it really is.

Thank god my mom isn't a racist. That's all that saved me growing up. When I first entered high school I was friends with this kid named Dan Hatch, who lived just down the street. Dan was a decent guy, one of the few in the neighborhood I gave a drop of piss about. Dan's dad was by far the biggest racist I've ever known. There may be someone worse, but I never met him.

It started when I was about fourteen and made an anti-Reagan statement in front of Mr. Hatch. He started calling me "Liberal." He said it with contempt the way Rush Limbaugh says it now only with a backwoods country fuck accent. Eventually he decided to call me "N-word Lover" (only he, of course, said the actual word). When I look back at it now, it amazes me because the man didn't hate me. I was his son's friend and welcome in his home. He just randomly tossed around such a hateful word as a nickname for a kid who didn't annoy him that much.

He used the name as almost a term of endearment. He called me that when he was being nice to me. He'd see me in my backyard and shout, past the three yards that separated us, "Hey, N-word Lover, we're grillin' burgers. Come on over and fix yourself a plate, you liberal cocksucker." And I'd go over and eat the man's food. Not because I endorsed his social views or enjoyed being called names, but because Dan was my friend and I was a fat kid who liked free burgers. "Have some more food, N-word Lover," he'd offer. "We have watermelon for desert. I know you N-word lovers like their watermelon."

The name only bothered me in the way it bothers you when someone pokes at you repeatedly. It didn't make me mad because I didn't care about his opinion. I'd laugh an obviously fake laugh and say "I like everyone," which was bullshit; I disliked everyone, but it had nothing to do with as arbitrary a factor as skin color. I'm glad to say I don't dislike everyone anymore. Now I hate everyone.

I have no clue what makes a person think like Mr. Hatch, other than simple ignorance. I suppose any reader hoping for profound insight just wasted time with this blog, time they'll never get back. Sorry.

Dan and his family only lived in the neighborhood a few years. They moved a couple of miles away and I started going to a different high school. The last time I saw any of the Hatch family was my senior year. I was at a Winn-Dixie grocery store when I spotted the long-suffered Mrs. Hash and her daughter, who was about thirteen or fourteen at the time. The daughter was pushing a baby in a stroller. The baby, a little boy, was bi-racial. The apple fell far far from the tree.

I walked up to Mrs. Hash, a nice lady who always gave me homemade pie, and made small talk until the girl went down a different aisle.
"So," I said, "when Mr. Hatch committed suicide, who found the body?"
She kind of laughed, then said sternly "He didn't take it none too good."

I hope Mrs. Hash, though not a well spoken woman, managed to bestow upon that baby her giving, kind nature. Otherwise, the baby grew up to be a troubled young man, and Mr. Hatch could bask in his self-fulfilling prophesy.