my dad was racist. his parents were more racist than he was. my mom was/is a more polite, refined racist. her mother was a really sweet, kindly racist. i never knew her father, but he was likely similar to his wife and daughter. my dad’s side of the family was the more aggressive, open types of racist, which i now appreciate more, but that’s a matter of personal preference. (“how do you like your bigotry? contemporary or classic?) because my whole family was populated with a variety of different kinds of racists, most of the people i grew up around were, also racist.

to be clear, when i say they were ‘racist,’ i mean that they were, in the main, racist in regards to African-Americans. i can’t remember ever hearing any discussion about Jewish people or Latinos or anything else, just black people. my dad had some feelings about Vietnamese people (and he wasn’t super conscientious about drawing a distinction between Vietnamese and other Asian peoples), but that was clearly connected to his experience fighting in the war in Vietnam, so i always drew a distinction between that and his other racism. not that it excused it (because the affect on another human being would be the same), but it was easier to imagine how the experiences he had to endure would prompt him to dehumanize the people on the other end of his gun, just as a means of surviving and maintaining his own sanity. his antipathy for African-Americans, however, was just garden-variety racism that deserves no special qualification.

anyway, i grew up around plenty of bigots, and most of their racism resembled my dad’s. Bruce, my dad’s best friend, was an endless font of racist jokes, and he did a hell of an impression of what he and my dad thought black people sounded like. my dad’s uncle was a serious, hardcore racist who straight-up married a Nazi and was just beyond miserable to be around, because he forced his hate into every discussion, no matter the topic. all of my parents’ casual acquaintances enjoyed a spirited retelling of the commonly know failings of African-Americans.

the guy who cut my hair was racist. he was a grinning, genial old fellow who would transition seamlessly from asking me about school to recounting the story of how he went against his better judgment and rented one of his properties to a black family, and the consequences he paid for that choice and how he won’t make the mistake of trying to do business with ‘them’ again. occasionally, i saw him drop his normally folksy demeanor and showed flashes of anger, and these instances were always, in my limited experience of him, connected to African-Americans. eventually, he added a second barber chair to his shop and his son, who shared his father’s two most notable (in my estimation) traits- his good nature and his bigotry -cut hair alongside him. they ran a nice little business (despite the fact that neither one of them actually cut hair very well), with the shop and its tiny parking lot regularly filled to overflowing with racists that needed a haircut or even some that just stopped in to talk some racist shit.

i really didn’t enjoy going there, but i kept getting my hair cut by him and his son. when i got old enough to go by myself, i kept thinking i would try some other place that was less racist and would make my hair look less busted, but i always chickened out and returned to the place i was familiar with. when i needed a haircut, i would repeatedly drive past the barber shop, hoping to find a time when there was no one else there and i could sit right down, get it done, and leave. this worked sometimes, but just as often i was forced to either forgo the haircut or sit in a room with wall-to-wall racists jabbering and laughing. then i’d have to sit in the chair, on display, my failure to participate in the conversation more noticeable.

there was seemingly never any hesitation about expressing their racism, no apparent worry from any of the men that they would upset another customer or that maybe censor themselves when children were present. i always sat silently, staring at the floor or the television. i don’t think my behavior ever appeared strange to anyone, because the owner had known me since i was very young, and i had always behaved this way; there was no reason for him to think i was being quiet because i was uncomfortable with the racist content of the conversations when i was just behaving the way i always had. i mean, i didn’t say anything when they were talking about my high school’s football team, so staying silent when they were talking about black folks didn’t stand out.

so i sat there, waiting and listening. and not saying anything. i thought about how i should say something. i thought about how, if i did speak up and push back, it might be especially notable to them, because i never spoke. i thought about how it wouldn’t make a bit of difference, but how that didn’t matter. on and off-duty police came in and joined in the racist conversations enthusiastically, sharing stories about having to deal with African-Americans on the job, referencing instances that occasionally hinted at them abusing their power. i said nothing and just wanted to get my hair cut and go. i wondered if i was just as bad, or worse than them. like my dad’s racism directed towards East Asians, i can offer an explanation for my behavior (social phobia- untreated at that time -that makes me terrified of people at all times and it’s difficult to participate in any social interaction), but that’s not an excuse. i was, honestly, relieved that going bald allowed me to just shave my head at home by myself, and i didn’t need to go to the barber shop anymore.

for a long time now, i haven’t given my mom any slack when she even hints at racism. she used to rant about ‘Mexicans’ at any chance she got (though she has been chastened by the ugly, open bigotry of Donald Trump in that regard), and i never let it slide. i don’t think it’s even useful when i challenge her, because it’s more like an attack, like “remember how you use to talk all that shit about dad being an ignorant redneck bigot? what the fuck is up now, dad?” i’m not doing anything positive, i’m just shitting on her and not letting her forget that she’s not a great person.

frequently, i wonder if i’m any different now than i was when i sat in the barber shop, silently listening to a room full of bigots, saying nothing. i have a job (teaching at a university) where it’s really unlikely i’ll be around much open racism, if any at all. occasionally, i’ll have a student who says something problematic, and i always stop to address it, but that’s a situation where i have all the power. the student, regardless of what they’re actually thinking or feeling, will always fold and go with whatever i’m saying. if i was really in a similar situation now, i have no idea what i would do. i’d love to think that i’m more mature, that all the work (and drugs) i’ve done to address my social phobia would make me able to speak up and say what i believe is right. but, if i’m being honest, i’m afraid i wouldn’t, because for all the work i’ve done and all the changes i’ve made, i’m still the same person as the silent little boy in the barber shop who was too scared to say a word and also too scared to go some different place to get my hair cut: i’m a coward. and, what’s worse, my cowardice is unlikely to never lead to any kind of negative consequence. for me.