I Live In A Racist Town

I live in a small town. Some parts of that are quite nice. It is usually fairly quiet and I’ve seen deer in my side yard a few times. The downside is that there are a few “good old boys” in town and I feel like I always have to be careful with what I say. I generally stay quiet, because some of them live on my block, or worked where my son’s had summer jobs, and were in management positions over them.

What makes me write this? Just one of those casual episodes of hatred. I stopped to get gas and the middle aged Caucasian man pumping my gas said he was having a rough day. I told him I hoped it got better, which apparently was enough to make him vent his story.

The short version is that his sister, his son, and his son’s girlfriend, and their baby moved back into his mother’s house (where he also lived), and he got kicked out for claiming the girlfriend was drugging the baby.

Which is when he literally said “I’m not a racist, but I hate Mexicans.” He then proceeded to say that his son’s girlfriend (said Mexican) didn’t even use the bathroom, but peed into coffee cups and defecated into coffee cans – not because they didn’t have a bathroom, but because that was what “Dirty Mexican’s” did. Of course he brought up the wall as well.

He then screwed my gas cap on and I drove away, feeling sad and guilty. Sad because someone hated someone because of where they were born. Guilty because I didn’t say something stronger for fear of the social consequences.

I live in a small town. I have a son in high school. It is sad to say that I don’t want to “rock” the boat because I’m worried about what these same racist, bigoted small town individuals might do.

How sad is that?

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