Despite being exposed to a deluge of anti-Mexican rants and conspiracy theories on how the “Mexicans” are going to take over America, I made it through the weekend. Barely.
I’ve said it before and I’ll probably mention it again: My dad is racist. I’ve come to realize that he’s racist not out of anger or hatred, but out of fear. Fear of potential change. Fear that our country will basically be as corrupt as the Mexican government is.
Well, our government is already corrupted, rife with companies (aka corporate leeches) seeking out special interests—but hey, this isn’t a political post so I’ll let my rants go. For now. (I won’t even go into the hypocrisy of worrying about the Mexicans taking over….let’s say my dad is right…..they’re doing exactly what the white folks did a couple hundred years ago to the Indians. Only with a little less blood. Fortunately, my dad isn’t right.)
Thank goodness I was able to distract him with Jeepers Creepers—a horror movie.
But—racism aside—he does have good qualities. He always listens to me, tries to help out with the handyman stuff around the house, gives good bear hugs. I do love him even if I’m embarrassed and a little bit angered by his attitude toward certain minorities. (He does have a major mental disability that affects how he reads…he can’t… AT ALL….and that cuts him some slack with me.)
It’s hard to juggle the conflicting thoughts of pure mortification and familial love.
Mom—was extremely sweet. She’s 78 and somehow that fact has escaped me until this visit. She’s getting old and her age is catching up to her. Fast. During breakfast at a local restaurant, I couldn’t help but notice how her hands bore more liver spots and how they slightly shook as she held her coffee.
The knowledge that she is 78 has finally struck home—and it is terrifying. I don’t want to lose the only mother I’ve ever known.
I think it’s time to make peace.