I learned hate young

If I ran, he laughed at me.

Hi again,

I struggled with what to write today. It’s been some kind of week, hasn’t it? I don’t write about politics, so I’m going with the heart on this one.

I learned hate young…

When I was a little girl, there was an old man down the road that would duck down behind his fence, waiting for me to pass by on my home from school. He’d shove his face against the fence and hiss at me. Go home, Jew

If I ran past his house, he’d laugh at me with his gravelly old voice.

One day, the pretty girl in my class arrived with a stack of birthday invitations. She put one on every desk with a smile. When she got to my desk she paused and told me I’m not invited because her daddy said no dirty Jews are allowed in their house.

Long before Mama was born, my grandfather fell in love with a girl that wasn’t Jewish. They ran away to Canada, long before war or camps. His family was not so lucky.

A pack of old letters…

A few years ago, my brother and I hired a genealogy researcher overseas to see if the house grandpa grew up in was still standing. It was.

As the researcher was taking photos, an old lady hobbled out of the house. When he told her he was taking photos for the family that once lived there, she hobbled back into the house. Wait, she told him. Wait.

She came back with an envelope full of letters and photos. Grandpa had been sending letters and photos to that house for years. Sharing the birth of his children, their growth, their marriages. Years. It was the last address he had for his family.

They made friends over the years. Pen pals, they used to call it.

That old lady was just a little girl when grandpa’s family was hauled away and the house was given to a German family. They saved his letters and photos for years. Long after he passed away and the letters stopped.

A German lady. Saved photos and letters for a once-Jewish man.
Just in case, one day, someone might come.

My Dad was a veteran…

Lied about his age to sign up to serve his country. Figured it was the only way a poor farm boy would get to see the world. And he did. Saw a lot more than the world.

I grew up knowing what flashbacks were. He’d wake screaming in the night and move to the couch so he could have the tv playing in the background. Sometimes I’d hear him and go curl up in the corner of the sofa. Daddy’s girl. Tell me about it, I’d say.

One time, he told me almost every man who died in battle died crying for his mother. Those poor bastards, he whispered. Laying there with legs blown off, arms missing, toughest damn soldiers you ever seen, and they’re crying for their Mama.

Those were George Floyd’s last words. "Momma!" he called out as he struggled for breath, "Momma, I'm through."

And I don’t know what to do with that.

We’re all going to die. I think one of the worst ways must be at the hands of another human being. I wonder if we’ll ever figure that out in a way that matters.

It’s a hard world out there. Be kind to each other.

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Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are. —Benjamin Franklin

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This week’s writing, in case you missed it…

They’re friend links, so you can read even if you don’t have a membership

• 6 Mistakes Professional Writers Don’t Make

• Too Much of the Wrong Kind of Hate, Not Enough of the Right Kind

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If you enjoyed this, please click the little heart to let me know. I’ve turned comments on, too, in case you’d like to add your thoughts.

Thanks for reading!

:)
Linda