The other day I happened to be sitting in a waiting room, at the VA hospital, in the Mental Health Clinic where I go for such help as I can get with nearly half century old PTSD. The waiting room chairs are arranged such that there are back to back rows. I couldn't help but overhear the slightly loud speaking voice of the woman sitting directly behind me.
As is my wont, I couldn't help but inquire about her accent. I already knew she was my "homegirl", I was more interested in pinpointing exactly what part of our NYC "hometown" she was from. Way back, when she and I were boys and girls, there were still distinctly Borough accents. Rather than ask her, as I was asked by Southerners when I first served in that long ago South, "What part of New York you from, girl" (gender changed for appropriateness) I politely inquired about how I couldn't help but notice her accent, and might I ask where she was from.
"Brooklyn," she responded. "Bronx boy here myself" I replied. Little did I know that I'd engaged the kind of person who, if you ask them what time it is they tell you how to build a watch. She went on to explain that her first husband was from the Bronx, and named the impossible intersection of two east-west streets. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, I thought.
"My second husband was from Brooklyn," she continued. And went on to idle pratter not relevant here. "My third husband's from Mississippi," she finally said. Almost at that very moment said third husband appeared, and from somewhere between simple courtesy and desperately looking for a graceful exit I rose and asked the fellow "Would you like to have this seat, sir?" "No, thank you, sir," he replied, "but thank you for the offer." Southern charm, Southern grace, between two old white men. Him from the Deep South, me from the South Bronx.
While I was on my feet (I'm finally getting to the point of the story) I noticed he was wearing a denim vest, I don't recall whether it was a "store bought" vest or a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off because my eyes had become fixed. All over the vest, much in the style of some motorcyclists, were numerous embroidered patches. Many veterans wear military related gear to the VA, it's about the only place our long ago glories and accomplishments are understood, even vaguely meaningful. His vest was covered with patches representing his branch of service, one or more units he'd been proud to serve in, some places he'd served. No problem.
It was the one on the lower back, much where I imagine the right kidney to be, that caught my eye. A white patch, outlined in red embroidery, clearly the representation of the lower 48. No big deal for a veteran to wear. It was the words that sprawled across that patch that transfixed my eyes.
Go Home! We're already full.
A sixty something xenophobic racist. From Mississippi. Qu'elle surpise. I know that not every white person from Mississippi is racist, I've personally known a few over the years who were positively cosmopolitan, even by higher than Mississippi's standards. But, well, you know how the smart money would bet.
We're sixty miles from the border with Mexico, in a city founded by the Spaniards over the graves of the indigenous people. Some people call Tucson the oldest continuously inhabited place in North America. Gadsden Purchase territory, "purchased" at the point of a gun from a Mexico we'd recently defeated by invading their country with a military force. The long time families around here say "We didn't cross the border, the border crossed us."
I'm having to restrain myself, to keep intercepting the messages from my head to my fingers as I type this. To not write on this page the ugly, yes bigotted, thoughts and especially the words that moment summoned up in me. Being a bigot even against bigotry is no virtue. Surrendering to the urge to hurl ugly epithets, however well deserved, their way serves no useful purpose. It would only reduce me to their level.
In that waiting room I paused the required polite moment, the anger seething within, excused myself and said "Well, I've gotta go use the rest room anyway" and got up and walked away. When I returned he was right there in that chair he'd refused when politely offered.
There's definitely a barrier there. I don't know if there'll ever be a day this side of the grave there'll be a bridge.