My dad and his parents
My parents were racists.
I don’t know of any way to sugarcoat that fact.
They were, without a doubt, products of their upbringing and the atmosphere in which they lived, but that’s like saying they were only Level Four Racists as opposed to Level Five, the really bad racists.
The weird thing is, I didn’t really notice it until I made it to college. I was simply unaware of their racism as I blithely frolicked my way through adolescence. But once in the hallowed halls of higher education, this being in the late 60’s, it became painfully obvious, all too quickly, that my parents were lilly-white to the bone, lower-income Irish mutts who looked down upon anyone else of “color.”
It seems odd to say this, but that’s just the way things were back then.
I’ve written often of the admiration I had for my father. He was the most influential person in my life,
and much of who I am today is because of who he was and how he raised me . . . much of who I am, but not all of who I am, and it is essential to realize that fact.
It’s complicated!
We are complicated!
And I always try to remember that fact when I’m writing and creating characters.
People are complicated!
We are not one-dimensional creatures. There is some good in all of us. There is some bad in all of us. The Yin and Yang of the human spectrum, in each of us, a constant struggle, which will win the final battle, no holds barred, may the best quality win.
It would be easy for me to condemn my parents for their racism, but if I do that I’d better be prepared to take a long look in the mirror at myself.
I also try to remember that when I’m writing and creating characters.
We humans have depth.
A good writer understands that.
Bill
“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”
Billybuc
Artistry With Words 