Although I try hard not to post about politics these days (more often than not, it leaves me with heart palpitations), I think itâs important that folks with hearts and minds open them up, and speak. I’ve told this story before, but I’m going to tell it again.
If you recognize the title of this post, you know these poignant words arenât mine; they belong to Nobel Peace Prize winner Martin Luther King Jr., one of my heroes. He also said, âIn the end, we will remember, not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friendsâ; and âOur lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.â
Today, I thought hard about what to say. âNothingâ was on that list, since essentially, my one opinion isnât worth all that much by itself. But I cannot be a silent friend, so hereâs my story: When I was a little girl â about 6 â we lived in San Pedro California. While youâd think Southern California would be the last place youâd find racial tensions against Spanish speaking people, unfortunately, youâd be wrong.
For those of you who know me, you know I was born in Spain to a Spanish mother. I spoke Spanish only until I was 5 years old. That first year in San Pedro we spent in terror, with my father in Vietnam and my diminutive mother in charge of three children under the age of 6. Our neighbor, you see, had decided my mother was a âdirty Mexicanâ and this woman terrorized us mercilessly. She put non-disposable diapers down our drainpipes (disposables didn’t exist then), flooding our home and the homes of others. She called social services on my mom countless times (for what, I have no idea, but they stopped coming, because every time they came, our home was spotless and her children were happy). Her nearly adult son would stand outside our patio in the evenings, and you could see his black dirty boots beneath our curtains. Heâd stand there for hours, making us afraid.
The list of perpetrations is extensive, and I went to bed every night with my mom rehearsing a list of things I should do if âsomeone broke inâ during the night. My mother understood very little English, and I was the only one with any English words in my lexicon. So, I slept with mom in her bed, beneath a window that was barely big enough for a child to crawl through.
âIf someone breaks in,â sheâd say (Iâm paraphrasing, because she spoke to me in Spanish), âgo out the window, go to the neighborâs house across the street. Tell her to call the police. Do you remember what I said? Tell me what you will do.â
I remember this, night after night. The fear of having my siblings and mother all depending on me â a little slip of nothing â and me not able to help them, gave me night terrors for years thereafter.
One day, out in our front yard, I watched this bruiser of a woman kick my mom in the back. Can you imagine what that felt like? The woman who is your protector against the world â your very world itself â lying on the ground at the mercy of a screaming, racist monster? At the age of six?
I know what that feels like, and 50 years later, the memory leaves me with a sick feeling in the pit of my gut.
Eventually, people began to see what was going on and my father called from overseas to threaten murder if the situation wasnât rectified. My grandmother, who lived in Chicago, called the police.
The Navy shipped these people to the Philippines (fitting), but while they were packing, my mother quietly made a pot of coffee and took it next door to offer it to the neighbor. I went with her, because, of course, it was my instinct to protect her.
The woman asked, âAfter everything, youâre offering me coffee?â My mother answered, âYou probably donât have time to make any yourself.â
This is what I recall: the astonished look on that womanâs face. I donât think she accepted my mom’s coffee, but I donât remember, because thatâs not what mattered most to me that day. I only remember that my tiny mother was a giant in my eyes. Even after all that woman had done to her, to us, it was her act of kindness that gave me my moral compass.
So, today, this is what I have to say: It is far braver, far more powerful to answer hate with love. If you remain silent, you are taking sides. If you cast a vote for hatred, misogyny, racism and bigotry, you are a hater, misogynist, racist and bigot. Itâs that simple.  This is no time for hate, my friends. This is a time for love, and Martin Luther King Jr. also reminds us this, ââAn eye for an eyeâ leaves everybody blind. The time is always right to do the right thing.â Letâs all do the right thing now. Tip the scales with love. Thatâs the only way weâre going to win.
Tanya, I was sad to read what these ignorant people did to your mother and you and your family but, yes! your mother is a giant, and will always be, for you and for all the people who believe that it’s not who you are, where you come from, the color of your skin, your faith or non-faith, the language you speak, or who you love, or any of the myriad differences that make us human.
Thank you for reminding us that love will/must trump hate.
Connie
Thank you, Constance. Hugs.
A powerful post, my friend. Most definitely a strong perspective and a strong message. Bless your mother.
Love you, Kat. Thank you.
Powerful words, Tanya. I’m so sorry you went through thisâand thanks for sharing.
Thank you, my friend. I only hope that people take the most salient point from this–not that I have first hand knowledge of this, but that more violence is not the answer.
I’ve known you a long time, my friend, and I never knew this about your past. It definitely explains a few things! What a powerful story and it made me cry. Very thought-provoking and insightful post.
Linda, I don’t know why my response to you never showed up. Hugs, my friend.
Beautifully said. I did not know anything about her past. What an appalling and amazing story. I cannot imagine going through that as a child–or as a mom.
(Um, your past. Not “her” past.)
I knew what you meant! Hugs.
Applause! Very well said, and thank you. Silence implies consent.
Amen
So powerful. Thank you for saying what needs to be said, so beautifully. Big hugs to you.
You’re welcome. Hug accepted.
Truly moved by your experience and your words. Iâm in awe of your mother! I cannot imagine the courage she showed at such a time…Thank you for sharing this.
Thank you so much, Shaleena! Hugs.
Your mom is a much stronger person than I’ll ever be.
HOWEVER … I will never forget the admonition, “First they came for the Jews …” And I will never forgive myself if I sit back and watch bigotry and hatred take over without at least TRYING to do something to fix / protect / whatever.