#I spent most of my twenties recovering from an abusive relationship and not letting men touch me so it was never a question

[freebooter4ever]

This is 1000% random but came to mind regarding the duck movie. I sometimies watch movies without sound if I think they might ~suck~ like that... so just a tip if you want to see it but not sort of experience it :D hahahha

heh, well. ive already seen it fully so the damage has been done. i bought it even, thinking i would want to rewatch it, but i really REALLY dont think i will. ever. i have watched a LOT of bad movies for my stupid infatuations over the years so honestly im used to it.

[realm-sweet-realm]

Secrets and Lies, chapter 3

This is a Death and Taxes fic. It takes the typical, predator-prey dynamic that one often sees in one-offs and tells a story with it. It’s going to be the edgiest thing I’ve written thusfar, so buckle up.

tw for internalized homophobia, regular homophobia, and discussion of rape and abuse

---

Blood was on his bed sheets and Joey was asleep on them. Grant let him sleep- he didn’t feel like dealing with him yet. Looking in the mirror, he was met with purple bruises on his face and neck from the night before. Thankfully not much swelling. After Joey had woken up and gotten out of his house, Grant headed into town to buy some liquid foundation to cover up the marks Joey had left on him. Buying makeup was mildly embarrassing, but he was not wearing his shame to work on Monday.

Was this life now? Letting Joey do what he wanted with him and licking his wounds in secret? It seemed that way. Over the coming two weeks, over which Joey came to him three times- twice in Grant’s own office- Grant learned that trying to lessen the amount of anger Joey released onto him was pointless. Joey didn’t want an amateur therapist or a sub, nor was this a method of punishment or control- Joey just wanted a fuckable punching bag. And especially after Joey assaulted him in his office, work began to feel like a very unsafe place to be.

In those two weeks, Grant also counted up the price of leaving the studio and Joey behind. He’d been spending more lunch hours than usual with Norman- spending time with the man could always lift Grant’s spirits a little, and Norman was so intimidating that he felt (irrationally, of course) like Joey couldn’t lay a finger on him as long as they were close. Norman could tell that something was up, but he didn’t say anything, thankfully.

Grant didn’t want to look at Norman and see someone he’d have to leave behind if he chose to get out of the studio and have the pictures come out. He couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject of how Norman viewed homosexuality. There were a few other people Grant cared about at work- a few from his department that he knew casually, and Shawn and Lacie who he’d gone out drinking with a couple times. Aside from Norman, no one worth staying for, though.

Even before the affair with Joey had happened, most of the reason Grant was still a part of the studio was because he wasn’t sure he could land another job in this economy. But, the economy was recovering. It would be safest to try and land something else before fleeing the studio, so just in case Joey decided to do sabotage him professionally- assuming Joey cared enough to, which he probably didn’t. It was hard not to get paranoid. He could quit right away if things escalated, but for now he’d spend at least a few weeks looking for a job.

There was still the matter of his next of kin. He didn’t remember who he’d put down as his next of kin- it was either his ex-wife or his mother. Neither were attractive options, but his parents he could deal with more easily than he could deal with Joey.

A knock on his office door jolted Grant from his train of thought. Oh God… Joey? Cautiously, as though caution could save him, Grant went over to the door and opened it slowly. He let out a sigh of relief when it turned out to be Toby, their overly friendly treasurer.

“You alright, there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Grant forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. What can I help you with?”

“Just here to drop off some ordering forms.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Grant had always noticed that, although Toby was downright bubbly with everyone else, he seemed very uncomfortable with Mr. Dew. And, well, he did fulfill certain stereotypes- the way he walked (Grant hoped that wasn’t what he looked like- good God was it effeminate!), his love of aesthetics... Maybe…

“Joey makes us budget for some strange things, doesn’t he Toby?” Grant asked. He knew how ominous he must have sounded despite his best efforts. But he would have done anything for someone to talk to about this. “Has he ever made you budget for something like this?”

Grant pulled a bottle of liquid foundation from his desk- the same liquid foundation that was currently smeared over the bruises that Joey had given him a few days ago before. Toby eyed the bottle.

“I-I don’t understand what you’re saying. Are you talking about… unprofessional relations?”

“…Yes.”

“Oh. Ouch. Sorry to hear about this. Yeah, Joey and I were hooking up for a while, but he never��� compelled me to buy that. Look, he’ll probably forget you in a month. Okay? Hang in there.”

Grant didn’t know if he could or should explain that he was more than one of Joey’s hookups. He supposed it didn’t matter. “Could you help me with something?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I need to access my file without Joey knowing. I have a meeting with him tomorrow at three pm- could you do me a favour and tell him there’s an issue he has to see to elsewhere? I just need a couple minutes alone in his office. Please. I’ll do anything.”

Toby looked concerned, and a bit overwhelmed. “Sure. Seems easy.”

“Thank you.”

The plan went as expected. Toby came in at 3:10, telling Joey that there was an issue in the music department that he had to see. When Joey arrived with him in the music department and there was no disaster, he said that they must have taken care of it. Joey gave him a harsh look, but that was all before they headed back to their respective offices.

Meanwhile, digging through Joey’s filing cabinet, Grant found what he was looking for. His next of kin was his mother. Good. Everything was back in place by the time Joey returned- as though it had never been touched at all.

Well, now he knew what the hardest part of all this would be. It was a few days before Grant could bring himself to do it.

Grant took a deep breath. In front of him was a prepared speech written on note-cards- he knew that that was the only way he would be able to go through with it. And if getting away from Joey meant his next of kin receiving that photo, he’d never have the courage to leave Joey otherwise. He dialed the familiar number on his phone.

“Hello?”

“Mom? I have something to confess. I’m bisexual.” Not that he was- but there was a chance she would take this better than if he’d admitted to being gay. “I never acted on it in my life until a about a month ago. I fell into an abusive relationship with my employer. He’s threatened that if I don’t do what he wants, he will fire me and release a photo that he took of me while I was in a sexually compromising position. I’m telling you because he threatened to send it to my next of kin, and I thought that this would be a better way for you to find out. I’m going to try to get away from him, and after that I want to turn my back on the lifestyle. Permanently. I promise.”

There was a long silence.

“You’re… you’re what?” her shocked voice made Grant pity her.

“Bisexual- half straight, half gay.”

“I need to talk with your father about this. That- and you being in a position like that is just… a lot. I’ll call you back in a while, okay? I love you.” She hung up.

Grant spent the next twenty minutes too stunned to do much of anything other than worry about what this would mean for his relationship with his family. His mother had always been emotionally fragile, and he hated hurting her like this. His father’s potential reaction scared him more, though. His father had grown up religious and was still in close contact with family members who were, and whose opinions he cared greatly about. And while his mother would never think for a second to disown him… well, his father loved him, too, but…

If only he hadn’t liked being helpless so much! There had been times- several times before the night that Joey had first raped him- where he could have told him, “no, I won’t sleep with you, I’m straight,” but he’d told himself that Joey wouldn’t take no for an answer, that the situation was temporary, that he was passive in it instead of actively choosing it every time. He’d chosen this.

The phone rang. “Hello?

“Hey,” it was her mother’s voice. It sounded a bit teary, but calm- probably a good sign. “So, we talked about it. Most important part first- do you have a plan to get out of this abusive situation you’re in?”

“Yes. I’ll be out within a month. Ironically, once you get that picture in the mail is when you’ll know I’m out.”

“Good. Secondly- your father and I talked about it, and we don’t think you’re half-gay- it’s more like you have the potential to be gay, and you rejected it. I mean, you could live like you’re normal the rest of your life and no one would know any different. So, it’s okay. Right? You just got misguided for a while.”

“Right. Soon, this will be a memory.”

“Thank you. I needed to hear that,” she said. With that they said their goodbyes and hung up.

Grant cried- probably from relief. Thank God his parents had accepted this- only because he’d massaged the truth, but nonetheless. That was a lie he’d have to keep up for the rest of his life- and maybe that was for the better. Joey was awfully close to the stereotype, wasn’t he? A sexual predator who targets men- men who considered themselves normal not too long ago- and brings them to the point of buying makeup, crying regularly, and accepting a woman’s place in bed. Lust wasn’t worth that, or hurting his parents, or being like Toby, who, nice as likable as he was, might as well have had “wipe your feet on me! Everyone else does!" Written across his forehead. No, that wasn’t the man he wanted to be- he needed to leave this world of predators and prey behind.

[1-1-s1ay-2-2]

If you follow my blog even in the slightest and have read some of my previous posts, you know I basically hold men in contempt. I have disdain toward men in general. You could also be aware of the rocky relationship I have with my mom, as I’ve mentioned it before...but I’ve never really talked about how it all started.

My mom was a bastard. Back in 1950, while my grandmother’s husband was gone for six months, she had an affair with a man who lived in the neighborhood. My mother was the result of the affair. My grandmother’s husband knew that my mom wasn’t his because he wasn’t in town around the time of conception.

This made him hate my mother when she was born. She was the youngest of six siblings. He started mistreating her immediately, which eventually led to him molesting her for the first thirteen years of her life.

Then she met my dad when she was thirteen and my dad was eighteen. He wanted to marry her (creepy, I know)...so my grandmother signed the papers so she could marry my dad. She never said it, but my mom always believed she let her marry my dad so young because she knew what her husband had been doing to my mom all those years and wanted to let mom get away from him and the abuse.

Sadly, my dad turned out to be not much better. Just a different kind of abuse. He abused my mom...for twenty years, until she finally found the courage to leave him. I was about ten years old when she found her courage.

Their divorce devastated me on every level. I never really recovered. Even though it was a bad thing for me, I knew then, and especially now, it was a good thing for my mom, in that, if she would’ve stayed with him, she probably wouldn’t be alive today.

He beat her many times throughout my childhood. One time, he broke her jaw and put her in the hospital. I witnessed her beatings with my own eyes. It was the most horrible thing a little girl could see. To watch my dad beat my mom was what nightmares were made of. That’s how my childhood seems to me in retrospect...like a nightmare.

After divorcing my dad, my mom dated a few different men in the first years of being single, but then...crickets. She never remarried. She never found love again. It’s been thirty five years. She’s spent her entire life either completely alone or being abused and mistreated by the very men who were supposed to love her. It broke her. She’s broken. My mother is a broken woman. And that’s the only way I’ve ever known her...broken and sad.

It’s affected our relationship to the point we never had one.

But I love her...so...much...but she doesn’t believe it no matter how many times I tell her. She will never believe anyone could or will ever love her. That’s how broken she is. As if she can’t be repaired...not even by real love from a real person who really loves her and would never molest or hit or abuse her. But she doesn’t see love. She doesn’t even know what love looks, sounds or feels like because she never had anyone to teach her by showing her.

My mom has never known true love. She’s never known the feeling of being loved by a man. Being cared for by a man. Being needed by a man. Being wanted by a man. All she ever knew about men was...they’re cruel.

My mother is a lonely woman. She has been lonely my whole life. It’s a burden I carry for her because whenever I see her or even think about her, I only feel sadness. She makes me sad. Her existence makes me sad because she’s lived a sad life surrounded by people who turned her into a sad person.

[jamlocked]

Let’s talk about John

Seeing as @raeofalbion and @summeringminor asked for it, let’s talk about John. I feel it may be unwise, but on this blog WE DIE LIKE MEN.

I want to talk about the violence and why, contrary to some things I’ve seen, it’s just…I don’t want to say, ‘not as awful as it’s made out’ but I can’t, because it is. But the reasons behind it don’t seem as alien to me as they seem to be to others.

Okay. So, first off, let’s talk about the British cultural thing I mentioned on this post, that I feel is sometimes overlooked (understandably) by those overseas. And I’m not condoning his behaviour in any way as a result of this, just pointing it out.

See, in my generation, it was always perfectly normal to utter casual threats of violence. Keep in mind that John is about ten years older than me, or something – I forget what year S4 is supposed to take place in - so this is even more true of his generation. Even when I was a kid, it was perfectly normal to say, ‘shut up, or I’ll kick your head in’. My mother would tell me, ‘I’ll skin you,’ if I was cheeky. When I was a teenager, my mates and I were all, ‘shut your mouth or you’ll get a slap’���and the thing is, none of us ever did these things, it was/is just a way of speaking in the UK. Hyperbole. There’s a very definite line, and people would rarely make the jump into actually doing any of it. But this is why John making statements like, ‘I could break every bone in your body while naming them’ does not read as abusive to me, it just reads as a standard, ‘shut your face because you’re annoying me’ statement.

Another mitigating factor – John was in the army. Now, my dad was in the army. So was my uncle. My best friend in my twenties was a senior cadet instructor, and I very nearly joined up myself a couple of times. I also played rugby – as John does/did – and spent my teenage years surrounded by lads with pints in their hands, threatening each other with a kicking while still being the best of mates. I went on holiday with an ex-paratrooper who told me that the regiment celebrated the arrival of new recruits by stuffing them in a locker and chucking them down a hill. This mate spent his first two months as a para recovering from a broken leg, collarbone and arm as a result of this initiation. (The guy was also utterly mental in other ways, but that’s another – very army – thing).

My point is…if you’re British and of a certain age, if you’ve been in the services, if you like macho sports and hanging out in that sort of company…there’s a certain way of speaking and behaving. And John is an intelligent man and a doctor, so not fully subscribed to this – I think it’s made pretty clear that he’s an outsider in some respects - but he also goes on holiday with his rugby mates, he’s addicted to danger and adrenaline, and he’s only happy when chasing down criminals with a (pretend) sociopath. He’s not portrayed as a sensitive type. He’s just more sensitive than Sherlock to social niceties, and spends his time pointing them out to him. But in the context of his age, the country he lives in, his background job, his hobbies, his current chosen way of living…his casual threats of violence don’t seem out of place to me.

(I will add at this point that speaking this way seems less of a thing, nowadays. Most of my friends now are about ten years younger than me, Oxford graduates, generally Woke, and would never dream of talking like that to anyone. Hurrah for the younger generation!)

HAVING SAID ALL THAT. John’s actions in S4 – specifically when he beat Sherlock up in TLD – were reprehensible. I could write a whole other essay on why, ‘a relationship would complete you as a human being’ was just awful, and…maybe I’ll get into that in a bit, because NO NO NO. But we’re talking about violence here, and why he seemed to start S1 as a generally affable guy with problems, and ended up shoeing Sherlock in the ribs on the tiles of a morgue. Of course that was gross. He crossed a line that few people go over, and the worst thing about it all was that Sherlock just accepted that he deserved it.

But again, the seeds of this were in him all along, and you can argue that yes, it made his character go to a really horrible place, but also that it was an action born out of circumstances and was there specifically to highlight just how much trouble John was in at the time. It also served as a plot device, because the relationship between John and Sherlock – the nucleus of the whole show – had to break down to its lowest point before they could rebuild it for a glorious coming-back-together in the final episode. It’s a standard redemption arc, where both heroes start high, fall to the pits, and then come through it together, stronger. It’s one thing to have John freezing Sherlock out and Sherlock nearly killing himself with drugs to get him back…that’s a slow-burn falling apart, and it’s hurtful but it’s not exciting. When you’re making ratings TV for the majority of people who are not in fandom, and just want their excitement fix once every few years, then you need a crunch point. A visual representation of how bad things have become. So, you get John literally kicking a man when he’s down, blaming him for the death of his wife. It brings it home to a mass audience.

…damnit, I had so many other things in my head about this the other night, and they’ve all deserted me. Never mind, let’s move on to the big Lack of Apology.

I am one of those who would love, beyond all else, for John to have stood in front of Sherlock at the end and the end of that episode, and said, ‘I’m sorry for assaulting you. I’m sorry for blaming you for Mary, when she was her own person and made her own choices. I know you did your best for her’. That would have been lovely.

At the same time…I think it says a lot about their relationship that he didn’t say it. I don’t think Sherlock needed him to, no matter how much we know Sherlock deserved to hear it. I think this was an instance of Moftiss trusting the audience a little bit. Quite simply, the fact that John stood in front of Sherlock and admitted, ‘what it is…is shit’, and then cried – Sherlock and John don’t do vulnerability with each other. They take the piss and call each other names, and are downright insulting a lot of the time (‘I always hear ‘punch me in the face when you talk’…’you’re an idiot – oh, don’t look like that, most people are…’). Sherlock drugs John without consent (twice), and sets an imaginary dog on him in Baskerville. John quips about Asperger’s. They’re friends, but they’re not soft with each other. They’re British men of a certain generation (written by British men of a certain generation). So, John came to Sherlock after all the shit that happened, and he admitted that he wasn’t doing well, and Sherlock stood up and hugged him and told him he was a human being. Sherlock knew he was sorry, or he wouldn’t have come. John knew Sherlock has been beating himself up over Mary, or he wouldn’t be in the state he was in. They accepted each other back into their lives, and tacitly agreed to move on. They’re intelligent men, they knew what they’d been through, they knew they were both sorry. And from there, they go onto TFP, having each other’s backs once more and finishing the season running together side by side.

I’m probably missing loads of important stuff, because I haven’t watched S4 since it aired. But the feeling that has stayed with me since I watched it, is that nothing that happened in the first two eps was good between them, but nothing was particularly out of character either. John beat Sherlock up because he was wracked with guilt over thinking about having an affair, and then Mary died. Him beating Sherlock up was an eruption of that guilt, transferring it onto the easiest person to blame. And of course that’s an awful thing, but he’s supposed to be a human being. People do that shit all the time. The fact that Sherlock forgives him is a whole other kettle of fish (let’s not get into his whole lack of self-esteem), but what is true friendship if not seeing someone at their very worst, and loving them anyway? I don’t think – I hope – that no one believes John makes a habit of that, and beats Sherlock up once a week for the rest of their lives. It was a one-off thing that came from a very particular set of circumstances.

…okay, I’m going to shut up. This isn’t me defending John as a character, because honestly he’s always been one of the least interesting to me as a whole. But I do think he’s integral to everything that happens, and I see a lot of readings of his behaviour as completely OOC, or that somehow he’s a poor representation of friendship (I mean, he is in lots of ways but Sherlock’s often worse). I just…prefer to look at him as character, rather than some idealisation of How Friends Should Act towards one another. He’s not there to represent an ideal friend, or be an ideal person. He’s a foil to Sherlock who, let’s face it, is Problematic with a capital P. Yes, John functions better in society, but it’s a certain section of society. He’s a bloke who plays rugby and dates a string of women, and doesn’t remember details of their lives. He’s a bloke that chafes at domestic living (very clear in S3) and seeks excitement, so he texts another woman in S4. He’s not any kind of ideal. He’s just a bloke, and he falls apart when his wife dies, and it brings out the very worst of him. Sherlock accepts that, and they move on. It may be an unpleasant character arc, but I just don’t see it as being one that’s inherently OOC.

(But fuck Moftiss for ‘a relationship would complete you as a human being’, fuck them fuck them fuck all the way off.)

[southern-insanity-blog]

Growing up in the South

Let me start by saying I love the South, the beauty, the charm and the character. Growing up in the South you learn a few truths quickly, and are shielded from other facts.

My family was a mix that embraced southern traditions, while also contradicting others. Most of the contradictions came from my grandmother on my mother’s side. She was born and raised in Rhode Island, only moving to the South to follow my grandfather after they were married.

My grandmother was my constant, the person who was always there and with whom I was closest to. With my father being an every other weekend dad, and my mother working two jobs and trying to find her own way, I spent most of my childhood with my grandmother.

I was the second oldest of five grandchildren, but I was the unanimous leader \ elder. My grandmother relied on me to keep the others in line as well as keep them safe. When it was just she and i, she would talk to me as if I were an adult, often leaning on me for support with issues involving my grandfather, Uncle, mother or Aunt. She nurtured me for certain, but she also gave me a sense of maturity.

To understand my grandmother you didn’t need to study all to hard. She was simple in her beliefs and steadfast in her love. She treated all people equally regardless of skin color, religion, gender or past. This woman is the sole reason I learned to see everyone for who they are not what they looked like. I must say that in the South this is a rare lesson that is taught to young white children.

To sidetrack a little bit lets discuss my father and his side of the family. My father was a racist, now later in his life he tried to convince me otherwise but decades of my experiences taught me the truth. He held a very high opinion of himself, and a very low opinion of my mother. They divorced when I was four, and both remarried fairly quickly.

My father’s family was very closed and cold. His mother was harsh and unloving and his father was a boozer and womanizer. My dad’s father died when I was about three in a mysterious house fire,I never got the full story but rumors I overheard involved my father or my grandmother.

Nevertheless his family was a volatile mix of alcoholics and repressed religious types. The women were mostly cold, hard working, God fearing people. While the men loved liquor, women, music and drugs.

My father’s family had some dangerous men, though they were treated like normal people when they were around. One of my father’s cousins was a notorious drug dealer and fencer of stolen goods. When I was five I loved going to his house which had and entire room filled with stand up arcade games. He also had a pet skunk, a pet monkey and a concrete fountain filled with coi fish.

I never really knew at that age what I was actually around. I would play the arcade games while my father or his mother, depending on who I was with, would disappear into another room to discuss whatever business they had. When I was six or seven the Tennessee bureau of investigation raided his home and he was given ten to twenty years in prison.

My father’s favorite cousin was a tremendous singer and musician, but he would also consume any drug or drink within reach. He had recorded an album in Nashville but lacked the drive and self discipline to ever take that opportunity anywhere. Most of my every other weekend nights were spent listening to my father and his friends “jamming” out all night while the smell of marijuana and cigarettes clouded the house. They would play or listen to country music until three or four in the morning at the highest volume they could stand.

My father had married a woman who in the nicest way I can put it, was an alcoholic, abusive, loud, manipulative bitch. Now I understand that most kids don’t like step parents, be it the new authority figure or simply the splitting of their parents, but this was justified hatred that I had for this woman.

She was thirteen years younger than my father, she had three children that she had lost custody of to her ex in laws. She drank liquor nightly, talked like a whorehouse madam and honestly believe that violence solved everything.

When you combined her and my father with alcohol, drugs and their friends, we rarely went a weekend without a physical altercation of some kind. Of course when her children were visiting during these altercations, it was abundantly clear that my father would be the focus of their blame and I was out numbered.

She had two girls and one boy, the oldest girl was two years older than me, the youngest girl was two years younger. Her boy was the same age as me just a couple of months older. The oldest girl and her brother were popular in their part of town, they were well known and their father knew everyone. The youngest girl was heavyset and shy, and didn’t have many friends. Still when they were there for the weekend I was either invisible, in the way or the target of their, and their mothers ridicule.

The two worlds I grew up in were vast contradictions of each other. My mother’s side believed in wholesome family gatherings, going to the lake or getting together for holiday meals. My father’s side believed in partying, gambling or fighting. I never fit in completely with either side, but my grandmother’s house was without a doubt my sanctuary.

My mother was so sad to me, she always seemed to be trying to fill a void that must have been massive. I loved my mother, but I hated how we lived. From kindergarten to the eighth grade I never attended the same school twice. We moved every year, so once again my grandmother’s home was my only constant. It wasn’t like my mother didn’t work hard, at many points in my childhood she would be working two jobs while crafting ceramics in what spare time she had. She always got me to little league games, and I never went hungry, which is better than allot of children grew up.

My mother had married six months after she divorced my father. The man she married was not well, he had taken shrapnel to his head in Vietnam and I don’t believe ever recovered mentally or emotionally. They were not married for very long when he strapped his son (who was my age maybe five) and myself into an old car he owned, put it in neutral and let us roll down a hill into a tree. My mother divorced him right after this.

From then on it was a few different men, none that really stuck around until she met one that lasted a couple of years on and off. He was fat, lazy and jealous, and didn’t care too much for me. Still mom seemed happy so I always just dealt with it hoping she would find a little joy in the relationship. After awhile his laziness grew to be too much for my mother to take and she cut him loose as well.

To complete the picture I have to discuss my mother’s siblings. My aunt and uncle. My uncle was a fireman and completely self absorbed. He was divorced, had two boys, and little time for them or the family if it didn’t benefit him in someway. He thought of himself as a ladies man and the holder of all truths and rules. In reality he was neither.

My aunt on the other hand was a rock. She had one boy and one girl, and a work ethic that I’ve never seen matched. She was married to a man who I can only describe as an arrogant, pathetic narcissist. He was a part time sheriff’s deputy and part time hardware store worker. He was horrible to my aunt, my grandmother and my cousins. To this day I have no idea why my aunt loved him the way she did. My aunt had worked at a big box department store for nineteen years, and in her spare time she was a volunteer EMT. She helped found a local volunteer fire station, and always seemed to want to help others. She was the true disciplinarian of the family, meaning no matter what you knew the person you actually had to deal with was my aunt. She was not cruel or demanding, she was fair and always got to the truth.

So that’s the basic setting of my childhood from the family side. Let me now discuss the area and town I grew up in.

I was born in Chattanooga, Tennessee in 1978. At that time Chattanooga was the smog capital of the United States. Lying between a couple of mountains it trapped all of the smog produced by the local manufacturing companies over the city. Chattanooga was caught somewhere between being a small city and a large town. It had good jobs, great scenery, great outdoors activity spots and sat on the borders of Alabama, Georgia and Tennessee.

The people of Chattanooga were a collection of hard working middle class and discarded hard working lower class. Even in my youth I recognized the divide of the classes in the city. Directly off the interstate stood two housing projects surrounded by dilapidated houses inhabitated by black families. The outer lying areas were where the white families had moved to, fleeing an imaginary criminal element.

Having attended every type of school in Chattanooga, I had a unique education and experience with every social class. My first grade classroom also held second and third grade students, and our cafeteria doubled as the library and auditorium. The entire school did not have one black student. My fourth grade school was 85% black and fairly large. I actually enjoyed that school allot more, I had way more in common with the black kids I made friends with than I ever did with the white ones. The black kids didn’t care that I wore Kmart shoes and clothes, the white ones looked down on me for it. So early on I saw how differently blacks were treated by whites, and how horrible a white kid who made friends with black kids would be treated by whites.

I had a defiant, strong willed attitude, and I knew how to fight. This combination made me a target and a hero. I didn’t allow bullying, I would fight anyone if they bullied my cousins or my friends. Understand this, in Chattanooga in the 80’s if you were white and beat up another white kid while defending your black friend, you were a pariah. Of course not all black kids wanted to be my friend, they had dealt with, and watched their families deal with, white people that didn’t see the world the way I did. Still they respected that in their eyes I seemed true in my actions and words.

I of course could not tell my father about having black friends, to him that would have been an embarrassment amongst his friends. My mother didn’t care as long as I had friends, still none of my black friends ever got to stay over for the night. I never really determined if that was just happenstance or something deeper.

I remember several instances of being in a public place, be it the grocery store or even at my father’s job where he and whoever he was taking to would use the word nigger freely. At that age I had no idea the evil and history of that word, it was so common place within my father’s world that it seemed natural.

However I used that word once in the presence of my grandmother and my entire perspective of that word changed instantly. I was about 6 years old and said the word in some context that I cannot recall. What I do recall is the look of anger and shame in my grandmother’s face, she had never looked at me like that before. As was her way, she say me down and explained why that word was unacceptable. She told me a brief history of slavery and the atrocities that white people had committed against black people. She told me that all people are simply people, that skin color was a ridiculous method by which to judge someone’s character. When she asked where I heard the word I remember her doing something she never did, she belittled my father. Never before had she said a harsh word about him, though I knew she didn’t like him, but that one time she let loose with what she really felt. I knew that what my grandmother was teaching me was the truth because like I said, my black friends never seemed to care what color I was, but the white kids I knew scared about the skin color of who I associated with. I never viewed someone’s color as a predetermination of who they were again.

The real shock of how segregated the South was came when I was 14 and my father got custody of me then abruptly moved us to Arkansas. Not just Arkansas, but rural, an hour from anywhere Arkansas. We moved to a small town with a population of about 600. It was like going back in time to the 1800’s, the first time I went into the local grocery\gas\convenience store there were 3 older black ladies in line before me. When one turned and saw me standing there she apologized and gestured for me to go ahead of them, I smiled and said thank you but that I was fine they were here first, and she gave me a worried look. It felt like she thought there would be trouble if I didn’t go ahead of her, it was one of the strangest feelings I’ve ever had.

The next eye opener was my first day at the new high school. The school was roughly 95% black, but the white kids walked around as if they ran everything. They ignored the black kids as they walked the halls, and even the teachers (who were all white) seemed to be annoyed at having to teach the black kids. Once again my attitude of making friends with whomever I wanted got me labeled as a “traitor” almost instantly.

I was targeted by 2 teachers daily, one female teacher who taught biology and the other was the boys basketball coach. The biology teacher didn’t appreciate my complete lack of respect I showed her after I heard her offer a white student tutoring after school, and a day later she told a black student “I don’t have time to teach you in school and out of school”. The basketball coach was odd, I didn’t really do anything to cause his attacks, but he persisted daily. I spent so many days in the principal’s office that my father eventually threatened to sue the school district.

After one year of this school, I left and enrolled in a military academy, where I graduated at the age of 16. I had a knack for math, and after discovering my ability I was given the option of taking a series of exams that allowed me to jump ahead.

Knowing that I did not want to stay in Arkansas, when I turned 18 I moved back to Chattanooga. The city had changed quite a bit, developers and politicians had launched a renovation of the city. Downtown had been transformed into a beautiful area with an aquarium and tons of restaurants and shopping areas. They had also lured in several businesses that had boosted the economy and brought national attention to Chattanooga.

I took a job at a local company that installed high tech fire alarm and suppression systems. In a short time I took over the inspection department and I was really enjoying the work. This is when the reality of the hidden South came crashing back into my life.

I needed to hire a new employee to do inspections, it wasn’t a very difficult position and it paid fairly well. I received the okay to interview potential employees, after sifting through about 60 applications I settled on 4 that I felt deserved an interview. Two were white twenty somethings with very basic experience. One was a 40 year old former mechanic that was looking for something a little more stable. The last was a 25 year old black guy that had previously worked for a sprinkler installation company for 3 years.

After the interviews I settled on the black kids and one of the white twenty somethings. I scheduled both for a second interview that would also include a ride along for the day to see what the job entailed. Both interviewed very well and both seemed to be interested, so I took my opinion to my boss for the final decision.

After reviewing their applications an be my recommendation he decided on the black man as the new hire. Since he was my recommendation I was thrilled because I knew I wouldn’t have to train him for as long because of his experience. I called the young man and told him to report on Monday morning to fill out all his paperwork and meet my superiors. On Monday he arrived promptly on time, well dressed and willing to get under way. I took him to our human resource lady to fill out his paperwork and that is where everything started to change. The human resource lady happened to be my bosses wife, she literally took one look at the new guy and excused herself to go upstairs to her husband’s office.

Roughly 15 minutes later she came down and said my boss wanted to see me. I sat down in his office and he laid into me, he said things like “we can’t trust a black guy at a client’s business unsupervised” and “you should have told me he was black when we spoke”, I explained that I didn’t see it that way and that my choice was based off his experience and interviews. I was given the choice to tell the young man that we had decided to not hire anyone new after all, or I could quit and then it wouldn’t really matter. I became angry and told him I would not quit nor would I tell the young man that he wasn’t hired. I was fired.

I contacted the ACLU’s local office and explained my situation, though they were very nice and understanding they said I didn’t really have proof so there’s want much that could be done.

I experienced similar situations in a couple of other jobs I took (one even being with the government). I realized that my views and the South didn’t seem to mesh and that if I wanted to stay in Chattanooga I would have to find a company that didn’t originate in the South.

Eventually I wound up working for a national Telecom company as a manager. There were black men and women that were my superiors, and that were under my supervision. It was a great fit and it allowed me the opportunity to enjoy my hometown without having the stress of a job that clashes with my world views.

I now have a son, and I’m trying to raise him in the South that still hides it’s racism in certain areas. I still witness the bigotry daily except now, with my son watching, I speak out. I have battled boy scout leaders, school teachers and even a police officer over comments they have made in the presence of my son. I am trying to raise a person that will assist in repairing the South, and hopefully transform the culture into one of inclusion and togetherness.

I know I’m not a writer and that I jumped all over in this little piece I wrote. I simply wanted to tell my condensed story about my experience growing up and living in the South, and hopefully anyone who reads this walks away with a better opinion of some of us that live here.