I realize that part of my writing the story is an attempt to be heard, to be believed and accepted. And I fear that should I ever publish beyond a blog that no one reads, I would be unable to handle all the negative reactions. I realize I want my daughters to believe me. But I also know that telling this story, my story, is not about who hears, who believes, who accepts it as true. It is about being able to articulate and claim my own life and history. It is for me.
I don't have any celebrity men to name, I don't even (much) care about shaming my husbands or lovers. Their problems are their own story, not mine. It's not about who they were or what they did. For me it is about how I experienced it, allowed it, hated myself for what happened; and how, now, I'm beginning to understand that I may not need to carry all the shame and guilt. Maybe I can write it out and that will help.
Mother said to me more than once that when she married, she wanted "to have six kids." Which may be one reason she had four kids right in a row. But at the time Cayce was delivered, she had her tubes tied. She did not want to answer my (5-year-old) questions about the the little scars on her belly. But maybe she accepted that this fond desire to be an earth mother, was not, in fact, something she was enjoying or wanted. And I, I grew up swearing to myself I would never have kids in case I turned into a mother like my own. Yet of all my siblings, I am the only one who has had children. And I often say it is the only thing I've ever done that was worth all the trouble.
Daddy didn't often talk to me about (anything, really) what he wanted, until he was able to talk about how he had "always" wanted to work for a newspaper. Mr. Kirkpatrick the editor of the Constitution lived across the street when he was growing up. And Daddy got back from the war, got married, and went to work for the newspaper. He spoke about going from the rank of Captain on the battlefield to becoming a "copy boy." "Copy!" some reporter would holler, and he would go running. Actually, of course, he was bright and talented, and started reporting, covering stories. He worked on the copy desk, he did rewrites, composed headlines, proofread, and took dictation. He had just been promoted to City Editor, according to the news story he saved in his scrapbook, when the Marines called him back to another war.
In another scrapbook, I found mementos of his one writers conference. To give up his writing ability, the facility with which he put strong opinions into clear words, and instead try to deal with the politics and hierarchy of the military life seems horrible to me. I find his decision to stay in USMC heartbreaking. Still, he was also a drunk, and goodness only knows what would have become of all of us had he chosen instead the fulfilling and yet peripatetic life of a writer.
Now Mother was a talented writer, too, but as far as I know never even considered professional writing or even pursuing an education as a writer. Any more than I did, sadly. Because writing is what I do, I think it's the best thing I do. But here it is hiding in the bushes, just at home, a hobby.
While I think I am remembering my life and my parents and my siblings, at the same time, I think I have to acknowledge that I am really just making up a story about us all, my story about my life and the people I love, who, as in a dream, are not really themselves but are all me. These memories are the reflections of the real people, but I am controlling or selecting the way I see them and present them.
FIRST MOLESTATION MEMORY--how real is it?
This is the memory I have "reconstructed," but now I don't think I am right about it. When I was 5 years old, my Daddy was called up to go to Korea and fight. My mother took me and 2 baby brothers and moved out west to San Diego to wait for him with other wives of Marines. She was having a pretty good time, I guess, and hired a babysitter for us while she socialized with those wives. Seems healthy, except after the second time the babysitter was with us, some grownups started asking me about him and why I drew naked pictures with no hands. I do remember he insisted I take a bath even though it was not bath night. I remember the time with discomfort.
PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE:
After reviewing the photos from my father's scrapbook 1951 to 1955, I find no record of our family being in California, until after Daddy returned from Korea and we moved to Camp Pendleton, near San Diego, in 1955 when I was 5. So I guess my memory above is not accurate.
I know I remember the babysitter man, and I know I remember the pictures I drew and the baths I was forced to take. I hate baths. I remember there were questions by a grownup or two. I don't know where we were living, and I don't know whether my dad was in the US or overseas. I don't know how old I was, except I'm pretty sure it was before Cayce was born. But who knows? I guess I'll have to revise this. But something happened. My mother would never talk about it, except to make veiled references to some terrible thing she allowed to happen to my brother John. Right. Not anything to do with me, but my brother was damaged by her negligence in some unstated way. I knew not to ask questions. Mother didn't like questions.
My last therapist suggested that not only was my molestation affecting my life, but maybe also my mother and my brother had been molested.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Molested as a Teen
There were two times I remember being actually assaulted. I was chubby and jiggled when I walked. I was walking up South McDonough, a tree-lined, shady road that led over the tracks to high school and beyond to the Courthouse in the city center. Clutching my books to my chest, I trudged toward school when I noticed a car parked against the curb a few houses up. I thought nothing of it, even when I noticed that the back door was open. The man sitting in the back spoke to me, and I turned to look at him. At that point I heard him say "want some of this" and there in his lap he was wiggling something pale. I don't think I even knew what he was doing at first. And then I did. I was terrified, panic-stricken, and the street was totally empty. Up ahead was a house I knew where some college professors lived with their small children. Could I got to their house? But as I approached it, I realized, no, they are probably at work. No one is likely home. I just kept walking. And walking. And nothing happened.
So by the time I got to school, where I had no friends, knew practically nobody, had no one to confide in, I said nothing to anyone about it. Double sessions meant that we were always in a hurry to the next class, and the only time anyone spoke to me was to ask to borrow homework. I was known for being "a brain" because I spoke up in class. And the gossip, of course. How little I understood how much gossip was going between kids, their parents, the school secretaries and teachers. Clearly whatever had scared me didn't show on my face.
When I got home from school, my mother was there. I actually thought that telling her about the scary man might make me feel better. Ha. When she realized this had happened in the morning on the way to school, she was just furious at me. And that was the end of that. And pretty much the end of my willingness to talk to her about any feelings I might have or any questions or worries. She just got mad about everything usually, and trying to avoid upsetting her was the behavior I had learned.
My grandfather began a weekly ritual in order to try to help out Mother with her duties, he would take the family out to eat at Davis Bros. Cafeteria. For us, dinner around the dining room table every night was the norm; Daddy, Mother, Granddaddy, and all 4 of us kids, staring at each other. Mother made a big effort to provide meat and 2 vegs with salad and dessert every single day of the world. Most days I would try not to say anything that would upset a grownup, but every once in a while, I tried expressing an idea. Whatever I thought, this was unwelcome and a cause for rejection and disagreement of at least one and usually both parents. My memory of dinner conversation was "hands on the table!" from my father, and "what did you have for lunch?" from Mother.
So now, once a week, we would pile into the station wagon and drive the few blocks to downtown where the cafeteria rested under the bank building. We got to choose our own dinner, under supervision, which means only one dessert and at least one vegetable. This was fine, and we would eat, remember to say "Thank you, Granddaddy. May I be excused?" At that point, for probably not more than ten or fifteen minutes, the four of us roamed freely in the dark, empty bank building and grounds, and riding the elevator. There there was a lone security guard, and this little fat man rarely said anything to us.
But one evening, I got separated from the others, and was alone when the guard stepped onto the elevator with me. To this day I cannot understand my own reactions to him. He turned to me and said, "Can I kiss you?" I guess I thought he was a genial grandfatherly type who wanted to peck my cheek. So I must have nodded or said "okay." He started kissing me on the mouth (ugh!) and said "give me your tongue" (yuck! No!). Then his hand started groping my privates and I pulled away. I said no words to him, but I may have whimpered.
The elevator reached the ground floor and opened, and I ran outside to find the whole family assembled. "What happened? Where were you?" I heard over and over. I remember saying nothing. I am certain my face expressed distress. I was so ashamed and scared to have got in such a horrible, nasty situation with that stranger. This incident was never discussed again. Did we even go back to the cafeteria again? I don't know.
After a few years, Granddaddy chose to give up his ground floor bedroom, and move to the garage apartment, leaving the entire 4-bedroom, 3-kitchen, 3 bath house to us. By the time I moved into the best bedroom, Granddaddy's formerly, I was so depressed and confused, I chose to paint the room gray. Of course I didn't go and choose the paint chips myself, and so the colors were wrong, so wrong. But the kindly house painter chose pink for the interior of the closets, just to cheer it up. It was horrid.
So by the time I got to school, where I had no friends, knew practically nobody, had no one to confide in, I said nothing to anyone about it. Double sessions meant that we were always in a hurry to the next class, and the only time anyone spoke to me was to ask to borrow homework. I was known for being "a brain" because I spoke up in class. And the gossip, of course. How little I understood how much gossip was going between kids, their parents, the school secretaries and teachers. Clearly whatever had scared me didn't show on my face.
When I got home from school, my mother was there. I actually thought that telling her about the scary man might make me feel better. Ha. When she realized this had happened in the morning on the way to school, she was just furious at me. And that was the end of that. And pretty much the end of my willingness to talk to her about any feelings I might have or any questions or worries. She just got mad about everything usually, and trying to avoid upsetting her was the behavior I had learned.
My grandfather began a weekly ritual in order to try to help out Mother with her duties, he would take the family out to eat at Davis Bros. Cafeteria. For us, dinner around the dining room table every night was the norm; Daddy, Mother, Granddaddy, and all 4 of us kids, staring at each other. Mother made a big effort to provide meat and 2 vegs with salad and dessert every single day of the world. Most days I would try not to say anything that would upset a grownup, but every once in a while, I tried expressing an idea. Whatever I thought, this was unwelcome and a cause for rejection and disagreement of at least one and usually both parents. My memory of dinner conversation was "hands on the table!" from my father, and "what did you have for lunch?" from Mother.
So now, once a week, we would pile into the station wagon and drive the few blocks to downtown where the cafeteria rested under the bank building. We got to choose our own dinner, under supervision, which means only one dessert and at least one vegetable. This was fine, and we would eat, remember to say "Thank you, Granddaddy. May I be excused?" At that point, for probably not more than ten or fifteen minutes, the four of us roamed freely in the dark, empty bank building and grounds, and riding the elevator. There there was a lone security guard, and this little fat man rarely said anything to us.
But one evening, I got separated from the others, and was alone when the guard stepped onto the elevator with me. To this day I cannot understand my own reactions to him. He turned to me and said, "Can I kiss you?" I guess I thought he was a genial grandfatherly type who wanted to peck my cheek. So I must have nodded or said "okay." He started kissing me on the mouth (ugh!) and said "give me your tongue" (yuck! No!). Then his hand started groping my privates and I pulled away. I said no words to him, but I may have whimpered.
The elevator reached the ground floor and opened, and I ran outside to find the whole family assembled. "What happened? Where were you?" I heard over and over. I remember saying nothing. I am certain my face expressed distress. I was so ashamed and scared to have got in such a horrible, nasty situation with that stranger. This incident was never discussed again. Did we even go back to the cafeteria again? I don't know.
After a few years, Granddaddy chose to give up his ground floor bedroom, and move to the garage apartment, leaving the entire 4-bedroom, 3-kitchen, 3 bath house to us. By the time I moved into the best bedroom, Granddaddy's formerly, I was so depressed and confused, I chose to paint the room gray. Of course I didn't go and choose the paint chips myself, and so the colors were wrong, so wrong. But the kindly house painter chose pink for the interior of the closets, just to cheer it up. It was horrid.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Abortion
I was Mother's second child but her first, too. My mother had an abortion during the war when the mother's bf was transferred far away and they didn't get married. At least he paid for the expensive abortion. The figure of $400 comes to mind, but it may not be part of that story. And Mother was still able to have more children. Specifically me, my two brothers and my sister, after she met and married a US Marine. She often said that they were each others' "last chance."
I was really lucky that my mother's illegal abortion was safe enough for her to get married years later and have me and my brothers and sister. I was also lucky enough to have a legal, safe abortion myself, even though I had to travel to NYC from Atlanta to get it. Once the Supreme Court handed down Roe v Wade, I thought that settled the issue. Apparently we are still under attack from misguided and apparently angry people, who seem to lack understanding and compassion. Those people seem to control many politicians, mostly white males, who have no compassion and are actively seeking to deny women control over their own bodies and choices. This makes me sad, angry and scared.
If I lived in one of those backward, poor, heavily religious countries where women are still enslaved and without basic human rights, I believe I would just put down my head and try to survive. I am no Malala, I am no Mother Theresa, I am not a hero. But I hope that there are ways I can reach out to women in my own country and in other countries and try to help them gain and hold onto their basic rights over their own bodies. Health care has been defined as a basic right by the United Nations. This is true, and I want to help.
I, too, was in the New Left in the late 60s and early 70s. I had married a fellow who had a couple of friends. I think they told me they had come south, not with the Freedom Riders that CORE organized, but later, to participate in a strike at the Farrah textile plant up in Blue Ridge, GA. Everyone got fired, and the plant closed. They were not the Catholic or Quakers or interested in non-violent resistance. In fact, I don't know what they were doing, except when something would get started, like the underground newspaper, The Great Speckled Bird, they would be around, maybe participating. I really enjoyed working with The Bird, although I didn't do that much. It was all volunteer for me, and I didn't take it very seriously. I was doing a lot of drugs, but I was not on a religious or spiritual journey, not seeking my awakening.
And then I got pregnant on the IUD. I was having sex with a number of random strangers ("free love") and also with my husband's friend HJ. I assumed it was HJ's baby. With the material and emotional help of many women in my small community, I went for an abortion in NYC. My husband's family, his uncle in NYC and his parents back in Atlanta, also gathered around in non-judgmental support. Today I look back at my lack of gratitude toward all of them. Opportunities missed.
The abortion itself was probably unnecessary, as the IUD had compromised my pregnancy. But I wrote about the experience (and drew an illustrated headline) in Atlanta's underground paper, The Great Speckled Bird. Then my sister showed the article to my parents. I didn't even know she read the Bird.
And that is how I learned that my mother had an abortion in Washington DC during WW2. Not from my mother, oh no! My sister told me what she had told my parents, and then told me about Mother's abortion. Mother told Cayce, not me. Cayce, not Mother, told me. I never spoke about abortion with my mother, and later in my life, she became a fanatical anti-abortion donor. She wore a pin and sent money to religious organizations.
I was really lucky that my mother's illegal abortion was safe enough for her to get married years later and have me and my brothers and sister. I was also lucky enough to have a legal, safe abortion myself, even though I had to travel to NYC from Atlanta to get it. Once the Supreme Court handed down Roe v Wade, I thought that settled the issue. Apparently we are still under attack from misguided and apparently angry people, who seem to lack understanding and compassion. Those people seem to control many politicians, mostly white males, who have no compassion and are actively seeking to deny women control over their own bodies and choices. This makes me sad, angry and scared.
If I lived in one of those backward, poor, heavily religious countries where women are still enslaved and without basic human rights, I believe I would just put down my head and try to survive. I am no Malala, I am no Mother Theresa, I am not a hero. But I hope that there are ways I can reach out to women in my own country and in other countries and try to help them gain and hold onto their basic rights over their own bodies. Health care has been defined as a basic right by the United Nations. This is true, and I want to help.
I, too, was in the New Left in the late 60s and early 70s. I had married a fellow who had a couple of friends. I think they told me they had come south, not with the Freedom Riders that CORE organized, but later, to participate in a strike at the Farrah textile plant up in Blue Ridge, GA. Everyone got fired, and the plant closed. They were not the Catholic or Quakers or interested in non-violent resistance. In fact, I don't know what they were doing, except when something would get started, like the underground newspaper, The Great Speckled Bird, they would be around, maybe participating. I really enjoyed working with The Bird, although I didn't do that much. It was all volunteer for me, and I didn't take it very seriously. I was doing a lot of drugs, but I was not on a religious or spiritual journey, not seeking my awakening.
And then I got pregnant on the IUD. I was having sex with a number of random strangers ("free love") and also with my husband's friend HJ. I assumed it was HJ's baby. With the material and emotional help of many women in my small community, I went for an abortion in NYC. My husband's family, his uncle in NYC and his parents back in Atlanta, also gathered around in non-judgmental support. Today I look back at my lack of gratitude toward all of them. Opportunities missed.
The abortion itself was probably unnecessary, as the IUD had compromised my pregnancy. But I wrote about the experience (and drew an illustrated headline) in Atlanta's underground paper, The Great Speckled Bird. Then my sister showed the article to my parents. I didn't even know she read the Bird.
And that is how I learned that my mother had an abortion in Washington DC during WW2. Not from my mother, oh no! My sister told me what she had told my parents, and then told me about Mother's abortion. Mother told Cayce, not me. Cayce, not Mother, told me. I never spoke about abortion with my mother, and later in my life, she became a fanatical anti-abortion donor. She wore a pin and sent money to religious organizations.
Today I contemplate her terror and loneliness, and my own, in spite of the support of my friends. I think, in spite of my anger at her, that this shared experience brought us closer or at least opened the door to it. I admit I was slow to grasp the opportunity. I imagine that Gran's reaction to Mother's tragedy was not as accepting. But it has taken me this many decades to see that.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
I Am Born
Once upon a time a little girl was born. I was the second child but the first, too. My mother had an abortion during the war when the mother's bf was transferred far away and they didn't get married. At least he paid for the expensive abortion. The figure of $400 comes to mind, but it may not be part of that story. And Mother was still able to have more children. Specifically me, after she met and married a US Marine. She often said that they were each others' "last chance."
The little girl had a toy bunny she named Bob-bee. If Bob-bee could not be found at bedtime, there was a lot of trouble. One time I threw up on Mother & Daddy's bed and on Bob-bee. It was a mess.
When Mother was pregnant with my baby sister, she was mad a lot. One time I "ran away" next door to my Grandma's. My Grandma loved me! But she would not let me stay, and I had to go home. When I got home, my mother had put both my brothers in my bed. She told me I had left so I didn't have a bed or a home anymore. Did I want to come back? That was a sad time. But she took them out and I got into bed. She was still mad with me (why I ran away) and I was mad with her, too. And very sad.
I remember Mother looking huge and enormous, sailing up and down the hallway in a green polka dot house coat. She was scary like a dragon. She was mad a lot. It was good to hide and not make any noise. She got mad when I asked questions about the baby coming, and later she got mad after Cayce came and I wanted to pet her and watch her. Her belly button (Cayce's) was all crusty and brown. I was not allowed to touch. I was not supposed to ask questions about babies or tummies or snot (mucus) or anything. I had so many questions, but they all made Mother mad.
Another time my Granny, mother's mother, was visiting and it was baby Rick's birthday. Mother decided to grill out on the front walk. (why?) It was rainy October day, and Mother was getting madder and madder at everyone. She sent the birthday boy into the house for doing something. Then she sent me in, too. When I got inside, Rick was slamming the hall door, which had lots of glass panes, over and over because he was angry. Open, slam! Open, slam! I found that annoying but was also scary because the glass could break. So I told him and told him to stop. But he didn't. So I held out my hand and shouted No you don't! and the door slammed on my hand right up to my armpit.
I remember waking up at the hospital and doctors hovering and talking nice to me. I guess they said they pulled pieces of glass out of my arm. They stitched me up, but it didn't hurt. It felt cold. Mother may have said they left glass inside. We went home, but the blood started again and Mother got upset and called. I don't remember if we went back. I held towels under my arm to catch the blood.
Sometimes she let me roller skate inside in the hallway. Now I know that was bad, but then it was just fun, a relief from the mad, sad and scared times.
I remember when Daddy came home (at last!) to that house. He came in the house and down the hall (past the infamous doorway) and he was wearing his "Major Hat." He was smiling and smiling. He picked me up and hugged me. It was wonderful to be hugged by my Daddy. But he did not want to talk about the hat or where he had been or answer my questions. Was he mad, too? He had to put me down to talk to Mother. And he stopped smiling.
The little girl had a toy bunny she named Bob-bee. If Bob-bee could not be found at bedtime, there was a lot of trouble. One time I threw up on Mother & Daddy's bed and on Bob-bee. It was a mess.
When Mother was pregnant with my baby sister, she was mad a lot. One time I "ran away" next door to my Grandma's. My Grandma loved me! But she would not let me stay, and I had to go home. When I got home, my mother had put both my brothers in my bed. She told me I had left so I didn't have a bed or a home anymore. Did I want to come back? That was a sad time. But she took them out and I got into bed. She was still mad with me (why I ran away) and I was mad with her, too. And very sad.
I remember Mother looking huge and enormous, sailing up and down the hallway in a green polka dot house coat. She was scary like a dragon. She was mad a lot. It was good to hide and not make any noise. She got mad when I asked questions about the baby coming, and later she got mad after Cayce came and I wanted to pet her and watch her. Her belly button (Cayce's) was all crusty and brown. I was not allowed to touch. I was not supposed to ask questions about babies or tummies or snot (mucus) or anything. I had so many questions, but they all made Mother mad.
Another time my Granny, mother's mother, was visiting and it was baby Rick's birthday. Mother decided to grill out on the front walk. (why?) It was rainy October day, and Mother was getting madder and madder at everyone. She sent the birthday boy into the house for doing something. Then she sent me in, too. When I got inside, Rick was slamming the hall door, which had lots of glass panes, over and over because he was angry. Open, slam! Open, slam! I found that annoying but was also scary because the glass could break. So I told him and told him to stop. But he didn't. So I held out my hand and shouted No you don't! and the door slammed on my hand right up to my armpit.
I remember waking up at the hospital and doctors hovering and talking nice to me. I guess they said they pulled pieces of glass out of my arm. They stitched me up, but it didn't hurt. It felt cold. Mother may have said they left glass inside. We went home, but the blood started again and Mother got upset and called. I don't remember if we went back. I held towels under my arm to catch the blood.
Sometimes she let me roller skate inside in the hallway. Now I know that was bad, but then it was just fun, a relief from the mad, sad and scared times.
I remember when Daddy came home (at last!) to that house. He came in the house and down the hall (past the infamous doorway) and he was wearing his "Major Hat." He was smiling and smiling. He picked me up and hugged me. It was wonderful to be hugged by my Daddy. But he did not want to talk about the hat or where he had been or answer my questions. Was he mad, too? He had to put me down to talk to Mother. And he stopped smiling.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Women Bullied at Work
I question the wisdom of the AJC publishing Drew Davidson's letter, "Harassment claim rings foul" (Readers Write, Thursday, June 18) belittling the women who were humiliated and assaulted by former Brookhaven mayor J. Max Davis. Davidson needs to have his brain sprayed with Lysol. Women working in government and private employment are frequently subjected to negative actions by the men in charge, and more needs to be said about it, not less.
I have worked in a company owned by a "Chris Christie-sized" bully like Mayor Davis, and I know how much he enjoyed intimidating, yelling, and belittling the women who worked for him. The follow up AJC article "Ex-mayor bullied her" (Metro, Friday June 19) stated "it might have been only a minor affair...if not for the city's handling of it." City Attorney Kevin Kurrie and Mayor Davis bungled it with lies, delays and cover ups. The reported actions, emails, press releases and statements of these so-called leaders indicate that their intentions with regard to their female employees are hostile and create an unfriendly working environment.
Even if the EEOC complaint goes nowhere, covering this kind of nastiness against women needs to be aired and publicized. More women need to speak out. This is not an isolated incident.
I have worked in a company owned by a "Chris Christie-sized" bully like Mayor Davis, and I know how much he enjoyed intimidating, yelling, and belittling the women who worked for him. The follow up AJC article "Ex-mayor bullied her" (Metro, Friday June 19) stated "it might have been only a minor affair...if not for the city's handling of it." City Attorney Kevin Kurrie and Mayor Davis bungled it with lies, delays and cover ups. The reported actions, emails, press releases and statements of these so-called leaders indicate that their intentions with regard to their female employees are hostile and create an unfriendly working environment.
Even if the EEOC complaint goes nowhere, covering this kind of nastiness against women needs to be aired and publicized. More women need to speak out. This is not an isolated incident.
When I see something, I say something
My great, great, great grandfather, Major Tyus owned 300 human beings and 20 square miles of Alabama. He outfitted a Confederate regiment. His wife's picture is hanging in my living room. My grandfather was born in a plantation house in Berryville, Virginia. That same grandfather casually used an expletive at our dining room table to refer to the man who was working just outside our open window. And my father spoke up to try to mitigate that insult, "A good MAN, Dad. He's a good man."
In 1963, I came home to Georgia, and attended a segregated high school. My American History teacher told us, "We're not going to study the Civil War. Y'all have already heard plenty about that." I know I had. It was not the "Civil" War, it was the "War Between the States" or "The War of Northern Aggression." It was not about slavery, it was about "states rights." As Southerners, we lived in "occupied territory." I took in racism with Mother's milk.
Conquering the racism I was born with is an ongoing process, and when I see something today, I say something as part of that journey. When my cousins told racist jokes, I laughed and told them, too. Today I am ashamed of that. I began my journey in consciousness-raising discussions with others in the New Left, but I usually felt like my knowledge and participation was too little, and too late. Today I know that it is not too late, and even a little is helpful.
When the KKK wanted to adopt a highway in North Georgia, I said that it is terrorist group, not a civic organization. The GADOT let the Klan adopt the highway anyway. When I see the stars and bars flying over southern government buildings, I say, take it down, burn it. This is not a game. I owe it to myself, to my country, to my Southern heritage, to speak up.
In 1963, I came home to Georgia, and attended a segregated high school. My American History teacher told us, "We're not going to study the Civil War. Y'all have already heard plenty about that." I know I had. It was not the "Civil" War, it was the "War Between the States" or "The War of Northern Aggression." It was not about slavery, it was about "states rights." As Southerners, we lived in "occupied territory." I took in racism with Mother's milk.
Conquering the racism I was born with is an ongoing process, and when I see something today, I say something as part of that journey. When my cousins told racist jokes, I laughed and told them, too. Today I am ashamed of that. I began my journey in consciousness-raising discussions with others in the New Left, but I usually felt like my knowledge and participation was too little, and too late. Today I know that it is not too late, and even a little is helpful.
When the KKK wanted to adopt a highway in North Georgia, I said that it is terrorist group, not a civic organization. The GADOT let the Klan adopt the highway anyway. When I see the stars and bars flying over southern government buildings, I say, take it down, burn it. This is not a game. I owe it to myself, to my country, to my Southern heritage, to speak up.
