I was raised in a diverse family believing everyone is equal. When I entered the real world, it disgusted me. I was saddened over the way people learned to label themselves.
“I am German.”
“My family is Irish.”
The one that effected me most however was one that would have my African grandmother rolling in her grave.
“You should respect me more. I’m black, your kind enslaved mine.”
That comment, on that seems so petty now, caused me to start writing down every comment I heard based on race. I currently have four full journals and am working on a fifth.
My grandfather was the first to speak of the horrors of discrimination. As a World War II veteran, he told me of the things he saw. He told me of the horrors seen in concentration camps, the looks of those they came to save, and the battles he fought.
“There are no colors, no religious boundaries, not truly. Because, at the end of the day, everyone bleeds red.” –Grandfather William
I tell those who ask me my race and/or my religion, “I’m American, does anything else matter?”