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Age: 56
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WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2008 (2:02 PM)

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A Sheltered Life?

I wouldn’t say I led a sheltered life as a child. Just like everyone else, the adults I knew were my parents’ friends, neighbors or people I saw at the store. However, I had almost no experience with African-Americans. With few exceptions, blacks lived on the east side of Buffalo, and absolutely not in the suburbs.

If my parents were prejudiced at the time, I wasn’t aware of it. Occasionally, I heard my father refer to a “colored guy” who delivered freight at work (his job was on a loading dock), or a “colored guy” who cut him off while driving, but there were never any tirades about or complaints against blacks.

Buffalo has very few high rise apartment buildings, and there were even fewer when I was a young child in the 1950’s. My aunt and uncle lived in one for a short time when I was about five years old. I remember visiting a couple of times and the last visit was the one time I can remember engaging with a black person, until I ran on the track team in high school.

The apartment building had a playground and large sandbox in the courtyard. I was there with my cousins, but I was the only one of the family playing in the sandbox. I was shaping a mound of sand, most likely into some sort of grand castle, when a young boy, about three or four years old, pushed a small toy car through the side of my creation.

We made frequent visits to the beach on Lake Erie, at Crystal Beach, Ontario, and building in the sand was something I often did with my father. The fact that the sand in the box was dry, and unlikely to form anything substantial, made it no less special to me than the castles I built on the beach. I grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at the boy, who started crying and ran off to his sister, who was playing nearby. My five year old mind immediately dismissed the matter and went back to the work at hand. We left the playground a short time later to go in for dinner.

Before we had a chance to eat, there was a knock at the door. I was immediately called from the table to face the woman at the door, who was ranting about the sand that was thrown into her child’s eyes. She proceeded to tear into my father, calling him a racist for teaching his child to treat colored children that way. After profuse apologies from my father, and a reluctant one extracted from me, the woman and her child left.

I was scolded by my parents and told by my father that I couldn’t go about throwing things at people, and especially at colored people. I understood that I was wrong for throwing the sand, but I puzzled over the “colored” part for quite a while (which, at that age, was probably until the next day). I simply had not noticed a difference. I was protecting my project in the sand from someone rude enough to spoil it.

~~~~~~~

My father wasn't outwardly racist, in language or otherwise, but one of the most embarrassing moments in my life was when I was seventeen years old and he told a realtor to never show our house to another couple like the one who had just left. He wasn't going to be the first person in town to sell his house to a "colored" family. I loved him, but he was a product of his times. That sounds like a defensive statement, considering many non-racists came from those times, but it’s a simple statement of fact. For myself, I was not raised to consider blacks in any regard (aside from that one incident as a child). The topic seldom came up – until that day. I could feel my face burning red with embarrassment as my father argued with the real estate agent. It was a defining moment for me.

I cannot say that I have any African-American friends. It’s an opportunity that never presented itself to me. I’ve worked with people I considered to be friends with at work, and who have earned my lasting respect, but they did not become friends outside of work, except to stop for an occasional drink after work. Of course (and why should it be “of course”), I’ve received comments like, “You walked into a bar with a black?! What are you, nuts?!”

So, I’ve encountered plenty of racism, at work and elsewhere. I’ve worked with and beside blacks, and I’ve represented them as a union steward. One of the major complaints against unions is the protection they provide for workers who are anything but workers. That’s not something I will address here. What I will say is that any fault I found with a black co-worker was not automatically attributed by me to their race. I’ve known whites with the same, or worse, character flaws. For me, it’s always been about the individual person.

I hadn’t considered any of this while forming my support for Barack Obama. It only came to mind after reading SillyLeslie’s latest blog, but I assume it plays a part in my acceptance of a black candidate, and soon President, without question.

Category: Life

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Posted Dec 2, 08 by NatureJunkie (

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This is such a tough issue, racism. I try to afford all people with my unbiased regard, but being a product of my time (as you said about your father) and my culture, I also try to do gut checks a lot just to make sure that my behavior isn't motivated by feelings I would be ashamed of if I were consciously aware of them. It's the best I can do, and I hope other people of all kinds make the same effort for me.

Posted Nov 12, 08 by 30andout
It might be several terms before another candidate captures the spirit of the people, but now we know it can be done.

Eliminate all discrimination. I wish I could say I'll live to see that day.

Posted Nov 12, 08 by SillyLeslie (

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I'm glad I inspire you to write in some small way, because you're good at it. I look forward to a future world filled with beautiful mocha-skinned people. My family now has "interracial" marriages and I can tell you, all bigotry ends at the family picnic with beautiful brown babies that have everyone's blood in them.

I've dealt with homophobia quite a bit personally in my life having come out at the age of 16. That's another matter...