Generations

My father was a racist. Not the kind that truly hated minorities or burned crosses in people’s yards, but the kind that, out of ignorance, would say insensitive and dismissive things. It was not really his fault. He was simply a product of his time. Out of fear or out of habit, I’m not sure which, he isolated himself within our mostly white, upper middle class community of God-fearing Christians. In order to isolate his children, he sent us to Catholic schools. He once said to me that he did so because at public schools we would be exposed to people of other faiths and that could get confusing. When I questioned his meaning, he explained that if I ever befriended or (gasp) dated someone of another faith or ethnicity it would be difficult. He said that while “they” are not inherently bad people, the differences would be too great and I would never really understand them.

And so I spent my youth in near perfect isolation. Until I was in my late teens, I had only met a handful of people who were black or brown or yellow, as they were called. I had only met one Jew and I was honestly afraid of her, based solely on that difference. I remember studying her face whenever she was looking away, trying to see what my father had warned me about. I had my guard up so as not to be confused by this exposure. Time passed and nothing bad ever happened.

I had also never encountered a real-life gay person until my twenties. They were not portrayed in entertainment back then, so the idea was a fuzzy, almost mythological concept to me. I knew that my religious leaders looked on it as a sin. I myself found there was nothing wrong with them. But viewed it more as a mutation. Not normal, but not their fault. I once said I considered it wrong – not morally, but much like saying 2 plus 2 equals 5 is wrong. But I, too, was a product of my time.

Children in my elementary school would use the term gay as an insult. I remember a girl in my class asking me once to touch her hair. She was not sure if she had used too much conditioner and wanted me to tell her. I refused. I didn’t want anyone to see me caress her hair and think I was a lesbian. I even feared she was only asking me in order to set me up for people to think that. Kids could be cruel and it was a prank that was all too possible.

I like to think I have changed. I spent years living in Ottawa and then Montreal where I met and befriended people of many faiths and colours and even sexual orientations. They seemed no different than the people I grew up with. Some kind, some cruel. Some smart, some foolish. There was the same mix of personality traits among them as I had encountered in my youth and I soon realized that my father’s fears were unfounded. I believe I was kind and tolerant of all the differences I encountered. Thinking back on it now, though, I was still quite ignorant. I still told the occasional off-colour joke, just as most of my peers did. We were all products of our time.

My husband and I were once given free tickets to a movie screening. Excited for the experience, we lined up, got our popcorn and drinks and sat in the centre of the theatre to enjoy the show, not even knowing what we were about to see. As it turns out, it was a movie highlighting the trials and hardships of blacks in a low-income, crime-riddled community. The cast was almost entirely black. We enjoyed the movie, and found it well done and entertaining, but we also started noticing that we were the only white people in the audience. I am ashamed to say I felt a twinge of fear. We thought we might be harassed or attacked on our way out because we “didn’t belong.” We felt out of place. I wonder now, what the other movie-goers thought of us. Were they happy that two white people had come out to support this film? Did they think we were there to criticize? Or that we had, perhaps, wandered in by accident? I’ll never know because we high-tailed it out of there the second the credits were rolling. But who could blame us? Inter-racial violence was on the rise. We were still products of our time.

Several years later, I took my young daughter to an outdoor festival with a friend and her daughter. This friend of mine purchased a framed print of two women kissing. She carried this with us around the festival and I was tolerant because I had no problem with the fact that my friend was bi-sexual. However, at one point, she needed to go take her child to the bathroom and she left me in charge of this large framed picture. I sat near a wall with my daughter and waited. I turned the photo to the wall so that nobody would think it was mine.

I like to think that I have done better than my father – not perfect, but better. And for years I thought that was good enough.

Today, I realize that it wasn’t.

Today I am filled with awe and admiration for my daughter, a beautiful young adult who has taken the meager teachings of her parents that tolerance and kindness are enough, and gone so much farther.

Let me begin by explaining that my daughter is bi-sexual. My childhood self might have been afraid of that. I regret that I ever gave her cause to be afraid to tell me. But I am happy to report that when she made her announcement, I was filled only with love and pride and a desire to hug her and tell her to be proud of who she is.

Over the past few years, I’ve proudly cheered her on as she attended LGBTQ rallies, dressed all in rainbows and sporting a large pride flag as a cape.

Finally, last week, I had my proudest moment yet. After the recent world events, namely the horrific murder or George Floyd by police officers in Minneapolis, there has been an outrage like we’ve never seen before. There have been protest marches and rallies around the world. One such march took place here in the same town that was so isolated and agoraphobic in my youth. My daughter contacted the organizers and wanted in. She arrived at the start point with a cooler full of water and snacks for anyone who might suffer heat exhaustion or low blood sugar during the march. She bravely put on her mask to guard against the pandemic that has kept her inside for months. The pandemic that has kept her from her senior year at school, from her prom, and quite possibly from starting the next chapter of her life as she planned. The pandemic that was not enough, however, to keep her from this important event. She prepared herself for the possibility of violence and threat of Covid and took a stand.

Unable to walk the distance with her, I returned home and positioned myself along the side of the road to wait and wave as she passed by. I expected to see anywhere from a dozen to a hundred people. I was not in any way prepared for the over 5,000 people who marched past me. People held signs with anti-racist quotes and slogans. They proclaimed that inaction was as bad as blatant racism. They chanted things like, “No justice, no peace.” Then the chants changed. It took me a moment to make out what they were saying. When I did, my heart stopped for a moment. They were shouting, “I can’t breathe.” This is what George Floyd said to his assailants, begging for mercy. Tears welled in my eyes as I began to finally understand. I felt the weight of what they were saying, and with every chorus of, “I can’t breathe,” I felt that I myself could not breathe.

My changes since my youth have not been enough. It is no longer enough to simply accept the differences between myself and others. Nor is it enough to embrace those differences. If people do not start standing up for those differences, things will never change. As I slowly caught my breath and my heart began to beat again, I spotted my daughter in the crowd. My proud, strong, brave daughter, standing up for what is right. I wanted to hug her right there in front of the crowd. As the masses passed by, the streets became empty once again. I made my way home and felt that maybe, just maybe, this new generation will bring about the changes that mine and my father’s failed to do. She is a product of her time. And times change.