I grew up in a liberal Catholic family. A large one. I knew about racism younger than, really, all of my contemporaries. Like everyone else, I was sold the idea that racism was a thing of the past. Yet, my older brother, who is black, would come home from high school covered in flour as his white classmates tried to "help" him by turning him white. They knew what they were doing. They were not just sweet little children. How is racism a thing of the past when my brother is here with tears welling in his eyes and bafflement on his face?

There were other clues as I grew that things were not what I thought with regard to many issues. That people are not always kind. I remember going home from high school on the city bus. A bunch of boys would get off the bus earlier than their stop to go to the local park to "beat up the gays". But I thought we were past that. But then, not all white boys, right? They must be bad apples with bad home lives, said I to myself. I was scared of these boys.

In my home, this was really not a thing. My Dad was very religious, after his own way. He struggled mightly with legalizing gay marriage. There was a disconnect between what he knew in his heart to be right and what his church was telling him. Gay people, black people, people from other countries and places in the world were always welcome in our home. In my Dad's view, this was what Jesus called him to.

Then the big one hit my family. A life and mind altering event for me.

When I was in elementary school, my older sister came home from college with her boyfriend. He was such a nice guy. He was fun, genuine, caring. We all loved him. He paid attention to the little sister! Who pays attention to the little sister?? When I say we all loved him, I am not exaggerating or re-writing the past. I went off to summer camp. I only learned of what happened once I returned.

My Mom and Dad went away for a weekend or some such. A relative came to be an adult present though not much should be needed with the age of kids in question. While they were gone, the horror happened. A boating trip went awry and the boyfriend drowned. Real life entered our family with the tragic death of a cherished person. And more. Illegal search. Bullying of the bereaved by the police. And a racist article in the local newspaper touting misinformation like that he was a vagrant. A druggie. And all that fun stuff. My Dad, being my Dad, wrote a letter to the editor sharing that he was a well loved guest in our home and challenging the paper on our reporting. That was when hate mail started arriving at the house. It was strangeness right out of a movie. He received letters from the local KKK. Manchester NH had, probably has, a local chapter of the KKK! What the fuck? I don't remember what other groups may have been represented. There was more than one letter. It would have been comical if it was not so horrible. Letters whose words were made up of text clipped out of magazines and such. It would be many years before I would realize that the ability to speak honestly about racial hate is what people mean by hating "political correctness".

All of this was shared with me upon my return from summer camp. While I was there, my parents made sure that I could not find out about the goings on in my home from news sources and the like. They sought to protect me. Even as a little kid, I sort of wished that they had pulled me from camp so I could exist in solidarity with my family at this time, though I did not have the language to understand that is what I meant, even within my own mind. But I did not doubt or complain at my parents making the best choice that they could. Tears still well for me writing this now. I remember my parents picking me up. Both parents. This was meaningful since there was no reason for two adults to get in the car to get one kid from camp. More meaninful was that my best friend was with them. And the mood was Not Good. And I was scared. In that car ride, my parents shared with me that Vernon had died with details I did not understand, do not remember or do not care to share. When we got home, Dad showed me the letters with tears running down his face. I looked in shock as one declared he was a N Lover. I will never forget, as long as I live, Dad vehemently asserting, God Damned Right I am a N Lover, tears drying and face red with anger. My Dad was not a man prone to anger.

I understood that racism was clearly alive and well among those few fools who did not know better. Sigh. I was young.

Years went by. I went to college, graduated and because a tiny and young little adult. I was sitting on the stoop of my sister's Boston apartment waiting for her. A black guy and I were chatting. He was older than me. To my eyes, an elder, a person deserving respect. I learned from him that racism is as rampant in northern cities as southern places. It is just more disguised. I am extremely fortunate to have been able to talk with this man. And I am extremely fortunate to be able to hear what he said. It impacted me profoundly to hear this.

So I hear things as I go through my life.

"Some of those that work forces
Are the same that burn crosses" - Rage Against The Machine 1992

Abner Louima, 1997 Who remembers this? I do. Covered up torture. Torture. I use this word on purpose. This word is correct. One of the thoughts that ran through my head was, they did this. They thought that they would get away with this. The police department tried to cover it up. They tried to claim that his injuries were a result of abnormal sexual practices. I remember the people howling that he was gay. As if that mattered. How many times has this happened that we do not know about?

I could no longer think that this was a few bad apples. I began to learn more.

GI Bill - for whites only

Compton

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Say Their Names

May there be no more sorrow;

May there be no more pain;

May there be NO MORE NAMES.