A resident’s response to Black Lives Matter signs was mentioned on NPR recently. The segment was titled “Racism in the Small Towns and Suburbs of Connecticut”. Hampton’s example was used as an epitome. We’ve been known for our artists, authors, a governor, an abolitionist. This is not the fame we usually call upon ourselves. Yet here we are.
America was a very different nation when I was born. Racism was clearly evident and blatantly practiced. Our annual voyages following crops through the country informed me — we would never be equal. Our bathroom wasn’t the clean one inside the restaurant. Ours had no sink, no soap, no mirror, no toilet paper. It was out back, with a partial wooden picket fence, a cement block on the ground, and if the stench didn’t make you gag, the sight of all that biodegradable material around the hole in the center would do the trick. A simple quenching of thirst was another humiliation. The “Whites Only Sign” at the water fountain meant it wasn’t for us. Ours was a faucet that sometimes worked, sometimes trickled, and sometimes smelled of urine. We learned to haul water, and drank from a shared, cool drum of water. Racism was so deeply instilled in my community that even in death we weren’t equal. Our local cemetery was half for whites, the other half split between blacks, and us. Change has finally come to this sacred soil, though it had nothing to do with equality. Instead it was a need for the white cemetery to expand because there were less people buried on our half than theirs.
I grew up in a barrio where everybody was brown and everybody was poor. Of course, at that time in my life I didn’t know we were segregated, and poverty was just another commonality. Everyone knew you and your family, and there was great comfort in that. We weren’t aware that there were other sections of town. None of us lived there or knew anyone who did. We weren’t aware that there was such a thing as “trick-or-treat” two blocks from us. I remember the first time someone mentioned it. What do you mean they just give you free candy?!?
As I grew up I learned to avoid white neighborhoods at night or at dusk. The KKK cut three of my uncle’s fingers off for that infraction. And if you saw a police car, you ran into an alley, or jumped into juniper bushes, stayed still and hoped they hadn’t seen you duck. You learned which restaurants in town would serve you, which ones would ask you to leave, or ignore you until you did. And you learned the reason you weren’t welcome. I remember being referred to as “wetbacks” or “spics”, “drunkin, lazy injuns.”
My parents endured these indignities and American apartheid during their lives. They stayed in the shadows. Mostly silent. Their encounters with white authorities kept to a minimum. I understood why they chose the shadows and the silence. But I couldn’t see myself living my whole life as a second class citizen. I didn’t want to grovel for scraps when I could sit at the table and have what everyone else was eating. I wanted my piece of the American dream. I once told a superintendent — you walk through the gate while I had to take walls down, one brick at a time. It’s a slow, tedious process, and often frustrating, but you can never give up. Plan A and B are good, but we had alternate plans through Z, always using what we learned along the way. A lot of good friends got lost in the process. I was one of the lucky ones. I made it out.
I soon discovered though that racism wasn’t only in our little town. Once while in college, I went with friends to visit LBJ’s birthplace on the Pedernales. We stopped at a local bar for directions. All conversation stopped, and when all the men stood up in unison, it was our signal. A mad dash to our car and a rocket take off gave us enough of a lead on the trucks that chased us. And racism wasn’t just in our state. When I was in the Navy, after flying into Norfolk, I wanted to drink a beer and relax before reporting to the fleet. Conversation abruptly stopped, the bar tender breaking the silence – “Boy – what are you doing here? We don’t serve your kind.” Not too subtle a hint.
Racism wasn’t only in the south though, and it wasn’t only then. Shortly after the 2016 election, I reconnected on Facebook with a friend I grew up with –we shared more adventures than I could ever forget. After accepting his “friend” request, I discovered that his page was filled with some of the most racists statements I’ve ever read — against Mexicans! What?!? I sent him a private message asking – what happened? He never responded, other than to “unfriend” me. At our July 4th barbecue this summer, an old friend who spent every holiday meal with us for over twenty years advocated for the employment of local militia during a discussion on the nation’s racial divide. This upset the rest of us, and he excused himself and went home. When I called to remind him of our Labor Day barbecue, he informed me that he found our Black Lives Matter sign offensive, and told us never to call him again. He could have asked – others have. I would have told him. That I’ve been subjected to more encounters with the police than I could ever count. It’s upsetting to think that after over a hundred meals at our table, he never knew who I was.
I’ve seen America from the eyes of a native person, the experiences of a Mexican. I’ve stuffed a lot of what I’ve witnessed into dark corners. I’ve worked hard at not retrieving those moments, yet they are revisited. Racism is here. It’s here and it’s now. And this is the moment to denounce it. We can, as a country, cowardly retreat from the ideal of equality. We can create division, suspicion and fear, or we can imagine what it’s like to walk around in the shoes of the “other”. We can empathize. Ultimately, we’re all only human beings. Let’s prove it.
Juan Arriola