On the eve of MLK day, a confession by a reformed bigot. [View All]

[angrycarpenter]

Growing up White in Alabama during the 60s-70s I swam in a sea of bigotry. It was everywhere and there was no one to say any different. Horrible racial stereotypes were treated as fact.

In the small mountaintop community where my parents had the bad judgment to settle, racism was almost a required philosophy. Everyone in that backward little farming community was a racist, everyone. I heard it from my teachers. I heard it from my pastor. Every single adult that ever said anything to me said hate and mistrust the black man, except one, more on that later.

The town of Crossville Ala. was an isolated little town on top of sand mountain. Until 1972 there was still a sign leading into town that said "N----- don't let the sun set on your back". The Klan was a common sight there. Many of the people in town had KKK bumperstickers on their cars. The teachers told racist jokes to the class. The cool kids wore KKK T-shirts to school. Klan literature was everywhere. My parents moved there in 1974, I still don't know why.

For a long time I went along with the crowd. I learned the jokes, I read the poorly written klan newsletters, I learned to hate a group that I had never really had any contact with. Looking back on those days I am filled with shame at the things that I thought and said.

We were poor. Absolutely dirt poor. My mom was a nurse, my dad was a farm laborer. We lived in houses that were barely fit for habitation. We dressed in clothes that make me sick to my stomach when I look at the old photos. Living in an all white community the only people who were readily available to beat up were the poor kids. I cannot even begin to recount the abuse I took at the hands of those overgrown boys just because my clothes were poor and I had the gall to be one of the smartest kids in school. One of the names I was called over and over was "n----- lover" because it was the worst thing their small minds could come up with.

The year I was in seventh grade a transformative event happened. We were to pick the name of a great American out of a hat to do a report on. I had the good/bad luck to pick Martin Luther King. I went to work with my usual thoroughness and did the research. We had been taught little about him so I alone in that school knew the outline of his life. I was especially struck by his courage in confronting the same kind of bullies that used to beat me for being poor. I said as much in my oral report. The teacher gave me an A and praised my report in front of the class. That bought me one of the worst beatings I have ever had. There were three of them and I still remember their names.

As I grew older I began to see that they just wanted someone to hate. There was no real reason for them to hate but a small mind needs a scapegoat like they need air. My mother was the only person in the world who showed any love for me. She was the one who scolded every ignorant thing that came out of my mouth in those days. She is quite possibly the least racist person I have ever known. Over time her influence washed away the hate that surrounded me every time I left the house. She showed me that to the First Baptist Church crowd all poor people looked the same. I think that was the point underlying every word Dr. King said.

It took me years to ruthlessly cleanse the filth from my mind and I am not fool enough to think that my job is done. We are all filled with prejudice, it is an everyday battle to try to look at the world with the blinders off. Racism is a chronic disease. I won't ever consider myself cured but as long as I remember the teachings of Dr. King and my mother I will stay in remission.