The First Taste of Prejudice

There comes a time in every parent's life when they must tell about the ugly in life

I am the only daughter and granddaughter on my mother's side of the family. Most people who know me will tell you that it explains a great deal about me. Yes, I am a spoiled to some extent. My brothers and cousins will tell you two things: 1) you always have two choices when dealing with me: my way and no way, 2) I don't think I'm the center of the universe, I know I am. I, personally, think this is a bit over the top, but who am I. I must admit that I lived my life in tiny rooms carpeted with caring with walls built of love. Though The Boys would devise ways in which to torture me, it was more in that bizarre familial way of siblings and cousins than hateful. It was not until I was eight that I learned there were people who used a short stick to take the measure of a person, and had no problem with putting a child in her place.

It was the winter of my third grade year and the year of the Barbie Christmas! Oh, how excited I was! It seemed everyone from the grandparents to Santa Claus had finally figured out that when I wasn't out "being a boy" I loved to play "Barbie" with the only other female child in our neighborhood. Yes, Shari and I were so lucky to have found each other. The moment we met we were best friends and shared an unquenchable love for all things "Barbie." Mother made me wait three whole days after Christmas before she allowed me to pack my trove into the Red Flyer for my sojourn to Shari's. I was unbelievably excited, because what the families didn't know was that Shari and I had been planning this haul for the whole year; dropping hints, leaving little notes, sweetly whispering hearts' desires into the phone; it was a challenge to keep the hints from appearing too obvious. I knew that she had scored as well! It was going to be a major "Barbie Fest!"

I skipped up the driveway drawing my little dray behind me, singing a little girl song of happiness. I mounted the steps in the bounding way of an excited child, having left the wagon on the walk, and excitedly knocked on the door. I then ran back to check on my treasures. Oh, what to show first! How would we lay out the little village in which Barbie and friends would play? I heard the door open and turned to see her mother standing behind the screen. Once again bound, pound, jump, and stomp, I was at the door.

"Mornin', Mrs. Everson! Merry Christmas (giggle, giggle) three days late!"

I looked up laughing at my silly joke to a face set in stone. Oh, I know there are fancier imagery but this is my lesson in firsts, remember. A face set in stone; cold and hard.

"Shari can't play with you anymore."

I cocked my head in puzzlement, "Is Shari sick?"

She expelled a breath in that sharp way that signals disgust, "I can't allow her to play with the daughter of a Christ killer."

"Ma'am?"

"Did you think we wouldn’t know about your family when you put that abomination in the window?"

"It's called a menorah," I answered sweetly. I learned early on that many of my family's traditions had to be explained so I hadn't realized she had meant to hurt me. She slammed the door.

I stood there looking at that closed door, an eight year old mind trying to wrap itself around hateful words. Christ killer? Well, I knew who Christ was and I certainly knew what a killer was, but the words together held no meaning. The whole "bombing a nation" thing just went past me. I knew, however, that it was
bad, really bad. Then the realization, "Shari can't play with you anymore." Anymore? Tears began to well up in my eyes as I slowly plodded down those steps, took hold of the wagon, and walked home.

"Home so early, baby?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I trudged to my room and deposited the toys on the floor. Fell on my bed and cried, mourning the unreasonable loss of my best friend. Mother followed me into the room and sat beside me patting my back, waiting for me to work my way up through the sadness enough to explain. Finally, through the hick-ups I replayed the event that broke my heart. I don't remember ever hearing a curse word come from my mother's lips.

"That woman! Baby, trash comes in many forms."

I sat up, Mother was ticked! "Woman" and "trash" in the same breath; strong language if you knew the verbal clues. She kissed and hugged me, assured me that all would be well, and left.

My Daddy never came home in the middle of the day. They paid him to work, not visit the family but there he stood in my doorway looking at me. I ran to him crying telling him of the loss of my friend and the strange rationale. He lifted me into his strong arms and slowly walked back to to my bed and sat. He rocked me a bit and wiped away my tears. I'm not sure there could be a challenge more difficult for him then to explain religious prejudice to his daughter. To be the one to bring such ugliness into so pure a heart, a heart that had only known love.

"Sweetheart, there are people in this world who are afraid of anyone who is different. They speak about the love of God but only for their own kind."

"Well, I hate them, Daddy. I will hate them for
always."

He took my face into his hands and looked through me as he said, "You must never use that word again. If you hate, they
win. You must love because they will never expect that." Then he smiled and planted a kiss upon my forehead. He then chuckled and as if thinking out loud, "They forget their Jesus was a Jew!"

Surprised, I said in an almost patronizing way, "No, Daddy, he's Catholic!" Gales of laughter swirled from him and he hugged me so hard. "That we will leave for another time!" With that he swung me onto his shoulders and announced to the house we were going out to eat!

I never played with Shari again but I did write Mrs. Everson a letter telling her I loved her; oh, and that Daddy said that Everson was a Jewish name.

It was a hard lesson to learn on that winter day, but the lesson still lingers to this day; love your enemy, they'll never expect that.