Ever since I was a little girl, I carved out my own little path, culled out my own little niche, and tried to do things my way. It was not an easy feat: my parental units were overbearingly decided on how things should be done, when they could take place, and where they would be set. Any sign of making our own decisions or showing initiative was immediately stamped down.
I have always had friends that did not meet my parents’ approval. At first, I did not understand that they were just biding their time, knowing we would be leaving soon anyway (military family, we moved every couple of years). Soon, though, my friends began pointing out to ME that my parents did not approve of our friendships. I always said they were crazy, my parents were GREAT and loved EVERYONE!
My big, pink, puffy heart was shattered when I started to realize I was wrong and my friends were not. The first time I realized I was wrong was with my friend Tonya. She was intelligent and beautiful and sweet and caring, and I was so lucky she introduced herself to me when I first arrived at the elementary school I attended on base in England. She took my hand, warned me away from the “mean kids” who were attempting to jostle my spirit, and introduced me to the sweet gyrls who would form my friendship circle. Tonya’s only downfall? She was black.
I am ashamed to admit that while I knew my parents did not like her, I did not believe they were racist until many, many years later–when I was 26. I did not believe my friend … and I let her down in my ignorance.
The second time I realized my parents did not like one of my friends was when I was in 8th grade, and my *old* best friend from this little military town (we’ll call it Fort Eg) introduced me to her then-best friend. See, my old best friend (let’s call her Georgia) and I met when I lived in Fort Eg BEFORE I moved to England. We came back to the same base, which was exciting for me - I had ready-made friends!
So anyway, Georgia introduced me to her BFF, Christy. Christy was peppy and bubbly and cute and funny and completely, totally, effervescent. I adored her immediately, and we bonded instantly. Christy and I couldn’t help but become BFFs, and we did not mean for anyone to feel left out or shunned … but Georgia pulled away from us anyway. She began doing things and hanging out with people she had previously found repulsive. In all honesty, while we missed Georgia … Christy and I didn’t miss out on anything. We had each other, and two other girlfriends. A perfect quartette.
Back to the story … I realized almost instantly that my parents did not approve of Christy. I didn’t understand the reasoning behind their dislike, either. But in their minds, her family’s poor income was enough for them to want me to set her aside. It is a good thing I believed in my heart more than I believed in their word: Christy and I are best friends to this day. She is the greatest gift of friendship I have ever received. We have definitely had our ups and downs, but our hearts know we’re soulmates in friendship.
A little later in life, I began to realize my parents disdain for other friends - both past and (at the time) present. It saddened me to realized my parents were not only judgmental, but also racist. I could not understand this concept: all four of my parents had grown up poor. My mother’s family lived in a chicken coop (seriously!) that was converted to a one-room shelter. My (step)father’s family wasn’t much more wealthy. My father’s family was not quite as poor, but with several children, sometimes things were spread thin. My (step)mother’s family were often hit with hard times, between illnesses and job losses … and with several children in the family (including one handicapped child), money was tight more often than not.
Not to mention: my mother is NOT white. She’s Mexican. Well, she’s American, of Mexican descent. She’s the first generation of Americans in our family. She was born here in the U.S. to immigrant (legal) parents.
Another saddening story: my (then-teenage) youngest (living) brother had a girlfriend who, shortly after they split up, found out she was pregnant. My (step)mother and I were discussing the possibility of him being the father. Now my (step)mother had no issue with my youngest (living) brother dating the young lady - who was half black, half Puerto Rican. In fact, both of my brothers had gone for the “exotic” rather than “white” girls in their dating choices. In fact, my other younger brother dated black girls almost exclusively (and still dates black women almost exclusively; I’m fairly certain I have only seen him with one non-black female).
However, when we were discussing my youngest (living) brother having possibly become a parent while still in his sophomore year of high-school, I was shocked to learn that *this* was not the point of contention in the situation. Instead, my (step)mother blurted out, “I sure hope the baby isn’t black!” I was so shocked I could not breathe. I couldn’t speak.
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My blog won’t post anymore of this story on this page … so I’ll continue tomorrow with the rest of my thoughts.
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xoxo
Don’t forget to stop by and donate a few buckaroos to help my friend Aidan and the rest of Team Taji in their efforts to collect enough school supplies for children to be able to attend the school they are helping to rebuild.
