I have been debating whether-or-not to write this article for days, but this afternoon a movie came on that I have not seen in many years, and it made me think I should go ahead with this post. The movie was "Driving Miss Daisy" (hopefully Antifa and Black Lives Matter will not decide to burn my building to the ground). It reminded me of a pivotal incident that occurred when I was in middle school, both for myself and for the other girl who was involved.
In 1974, my father was stationed in Huntington Beach, California, and for whatever reason we were given Navy housing in San Pedro. I attended Dodson Junior High School where, at the time, kids were being bused in from Wilmington. As a result, we had a serious gang problem, and I spent most of my afternoons trying to dodge gang members outside the school who were just looking for someone, anyone, to beat up.
In order to get home, I had to go down a very steep hill about three blocks to Western Avenue. I crossed at the light, went another block, and when I turned right I was "safely" in Navy housing. I was "safe". Most of the time.
A very brief history is in order before I continue. I always hated fighting. It never made one damned bit of sense to me, although when I got close to adulthood I realized sometimes it is a necessary evil. But I never saw the point of duking it out with someone. You give me a black eye, I give you a bloody nose...what did we prove? Did we solve anything? No. I was sixteen before I ever hit another person. So, that is the framework within which I approached the following encounter.
As I turned down the final couple of blocks to my duplex, a girl came toward me who I had never seen before. She was black, and I am white. She walked up to me and pushed me. You know, that shove people give you because they want you to hit them so you can fight? I tried to walk around her one direction and she blocked me. So I tried to walk the other way around her and she blocked me again. She pushed me again, saying, "Hit me!" I tried in vain to find a way around her. Clearly exasperated, she pushed me two more times saying, "Hit me! Hit me! Why won't you hit me?!"
I replied, "I don't even know you. Why do I want to hit you?"
She stood there flabbergasted.
She stared at me for several seconds, then she said, "Well, do you want to walk home with me?" I shrugged my shoulders and said, "OK".
And just like that we were glued at the hip until her family was transferred to another location.
Now, we were both barely pubescent, so we never discussed what happened that day, but looking back on it I think I understand what happened. Wendy was used to fighting. She was used to white people wanting to fight. So, she decided to get the whole thing over with from the start, and when I did not participate I think (and hope) it was a turning point in her life. I know it was in mine. I don't think she really wanted to fight at all. She was just used to it.
Those of you who have seen "Driving Miss Daisy" may understand the point I am trying to make. It was that one-on-one encounter that taught us both something. Not some "reeducation program" created by Marxists that will do nothing but divide us further. What we really need to do is get to know each other. One-on-one. In person. One at a time. Without interference from anyone else.
Contrary to what we are seeing right now, most people do not believe the stereotypes and do not buy into the Marxist division being played out on the news every day. Most of us judge the people in our lives based upon the behavior of the people in our lives.
That is how it should be.
And it is the only way we will ever heal.
