Humans of the Border: I was a teenaged racist. So were my friends — until I made some new ones.
by Brendon Tucker
I’m a white guy from the Texas Hill Country, and I feel lucky about a mistake I made that landed me in jail and changed my politics.
My grandparents wear matching Breitbart t-shirts. I learned to be a conservative because that’s what I was told, not just by my family but also my high school. In history class we watched the O’Reilly Factor every day.
In Canyon Lake, where I grew up, everyone is a racist, we just don’t know it. Every joke out of your mouth is a racist joke. You say the N-word and you think it’s funny. You build the stereotype into your framework and you believe it.
When I was 17 I took a left at a stop sign at 2 a.m. near a school and failed to use my blinker. When the police stopped me they found the leftovers of a joint on my lap — what had fallen out while I was rolling it. The school was a “drug-free-zone,” so I got charged with a Class A misdemeanor. I spent three months in jail.
That was six years ago and now I can’t get most jobs. I had an offer from an organization that works with troubled kids. I filled out the form and was truthful answering the question, “Any crimes?” They said, “You’re a danger to children.” I got interviewed at a bank: they said they couldn’t insure me. I had an offer to sell cars. After they saw my application they said, “Sorry.”
The one place that did hire me was a Ross store. I was the only white guy there, and all my friends ended up being black people. That’s how I finally learned about racism.
I worked for a couple of months and got a promotion, but no one else did, even though they’d been there for longer and had degrees and kids. They moved me up again and I was, like, “Why am the only one getting promoted?” My friends at Ross said, “Why do you think?”
There was a girl who worked with me. She was sweet, went to church three times a week, sang in the choir, never cursed. A white lady walked in with her kids and they were throwing ketchup on the clothes. This girl went up and said, “I’m so sorry. We can’t have food in here.” The woman threw the rest of the food and said, “Pick it up, N-word. That’s your job.” I watched this girl break down to the point where she had to go home.
Once a lady who left her purse in a fitting room walked out to grab another t-shirt and walked back to the wrong fitting room. She accused one of my black co-workers of stealing her purse. She called the police. “She didn’t steal the purse,” I said, “the lady walked into the wrong dressing room.” The cop didn’t believe my black co-worker or the black manager until I stepped in and said something.
That’s how I learned about the evil that racism is and just how prevalent it is, and how it’s still around,
During Trump’s “zero tolerance” family separation crisis this summer, I came down to South Texas so I could cook for refugees who’ve been released from detention with no money, no food. I also cook for refugees who are literally living on the international bridges because our border agents are illegally blocking them from crossing to ask for asylum.
So this is my job now: using donations to make inexpensive meals for immigrants. Pasta, rice, beans, bacon. Calories and protein. Warm, nourishing, welcoming.
My grandparents are into the whole fear-based Trump thing about immigrants all being criminals, rapists, and murderers. I’ve had immigrants stay over at my apartment and I’ve invited them: “You want a beer?” “Oh, no,” they say, then they talk about God. “How about a cigarette?” “Oh no!” And then they pray for 30 minutes. They’re just upstanding individuals. I wish everyone could meet them.
I have a friend in Canyon Lake and we’ve talked politics. “I agree with you,” he says. “But dude, I’m not going to put bumper stickers on my car. I’m not going to be vocal. I’ll lose my job.”
And I’m, like: “Dude, you can vote! It’s confidential! Get to the polls in November. I’m not going to tell you who to vote for. I’m just telling you — vote your conscience.
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