Most of the time I can convince myself that I am a tolerant and accepting person. But as a child, the family and the part of the community that I associated with were definitely homogenous -- no non-Christians in my family, no black members in my church. With the exception of school, starting in sixth grade, everyone was just like me.
There were definitely undercurrents (and sometimes tidal waves) of racism, classism, and religious intolerance in my segregated existence. I can distinctly remember a remark I heard my father make when Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated and even then, at the age of not quite ten, I knew that what my father had said was hateful and wrong. Based on that and subsequent experiences, I decided that I wouldn't react the way my father and others had. I determined to ignore the remarks that denigrated others in a misguided attempt to elevate oneself, and I made an effort to meet and make friends with all sorts of people.
And for quite some time, I thought I had been successful . . . until circumstances and situations showed me that I was wrong.
Slowly I realized that, in my heart, I wasn't really a tolerant or accepting person. I did consider myself superior to someone who hadn't graduated from high school, let alone graduated magna cum laude from a university. When my then third grade daughter told me that she "liked" two boys in her class, one black and one Hispanic, I wasn't thrilled.
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