Opinion: Empathy for others feels better than hate and anger

I have lived in the South my whole life. My father was a descendant of slave owners. My mother’s family was too poor to own slaves, but her ancestors did not oppose slavery.

As a grade-school child before integration, all my buddies used the “N word” to describe people of African-American descent, yet my brothers and I were not allowed to speak that way.

We were being taught, in effect, to go against your culture if you believe your culture to be wrong. This was not how my parents were raised. What changed them?

In 1945, Dad traveled to a Methodist church meeting outside his home state of Arkansas, to Michigan, where he was told he would room with a black man. Dad said that, initially, he was furious. However, he said, something inside said he should be open to the experience, and he accepted the assignment.

Dad grew to like his roommate and, as he later said, he discovered that “he was smarter than me.” That flew in the face of what he had been raised to believe, that blacks were inferior to whites. Dad said he left the church meeting committed to “work on my shortcomings.”

One of my mom’s best friends as a child and teenager was an African-American neighbor. In the South, playing as children with other races was not unusual. The way I remember her telling it, Mom and the other girl continued their friendship beyond what was considered “normal” and, as they grew, Mom saw the abuse her friend had to endure. Mom decided she would be different.

When I was young, schools were segregated. One day, an elderly black woman walked along the sidewalk that bordered our grade school. It was recess and students lined up on both sides of the sidewalk yelling insults and racial slurs. Some even grabbed at the woman’s shopping bag.

I was 10 or 11 when I ran up to see what was happening and I felt the grief my mom had experienced years earlier. I was too young to know what to do and just kept quiet. But it happened again a month or so later. This time, I did not run to see what was happening. Confused, hurt and angry, I hid behind a tree.

When I got home from school and did not go out to play, Mom asked me what was wrong. As tears trickled down my face, I explained. I don’t remember what she said as she held me, but it helped.

The next time this elderly black lady walked the sidewalk by the school, teachers were on duty and stopped the heckling. I’m pretty sure Mom had something to do with that.

The current political climate seems to have revitalized intolerance and cruelty. I thought our nation had moved beyond making people endure the abuse that elderly black woman experienced. Now I’m not so sure.

I find myself avoiding old friends because I just don’t want to listen to their hate-filled hogwash.

One such person is a hard-working individual blessed with a good sense of humor, but with political views to the right of Attila the Hun.

One day I noticed the sense of humor was gone. I didn’t really care too much but, to be polite, I asked him what was wrong.

His wife, who he truly loved, was having surgery the next day. He was worried he was losing her.

My heart melted. His political views didn’t seem to matter any more. I know the feeling of losing a spouse way too early.

And as bad as I felt for his grief, it felt better than the hate and anger I previously had.

Don McDonald writes for Community News Exchange. Contact him at: [email protected]