Rotten Egg

or Finding My Own Way

John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963. I was in 2nd grade and almost eight years old. I watched the news coverage on our black and white TV in my parent’s bedroom. The funeral procession, the casket drawn by six beautiful horses, the stoic Mrs. Kennedy, her children along side her, Caroline holding her mother’s hand while little John John saluted. My young mind understood that something important had happened.

Many years later, these images are still clear to me. In my mind’s eye, I see them sharply, in black and white. But, something else stands in the forefront. Out of all these iconic images there’s one thing more prominent in my memory. It’s the sound of my father’s voice saying, “I’m not glad that JFK was assassinated, it would have been better if he’d never been born.”

That one sentence, spoken to a 7 year old girl, who as a young adult would vote for the death penalty and “three strikes you’re out”. That one sentence, was the seed that grew into my political views for years to come.

My parents were married in 1951. My mom’s family were life-long Democrats. My dad’s family were a mixed bag, but mostly Republican. A year later, in 1952, my mom became a Republican. More than just a coincidence, I think. Recently, I asked her why she had changed parties all those years ago. She told me that she didn’t like how Truman had ousted General MacArthur and she really liked MacArthur. She did mention how much she liked Bess Truman though. “She was a good first lady, not political,” she said. “She just had people over for tea at the White House.”

Political talk wasn’t uncommon in my family. The interactions were heated and animated, the dialogue matter-of-fact. With raised voices and hand motions punctuating the air, these discussions looked more like a heated argument rather than passionate people discussing recent events and agreeing with each other.

Political discussions weren’t just limited to adults either. I must have been 12 when Hubert Humphrey ran for president. My dad, a staunch Republican, supported Richard Nixon. One hot summer day, Janice came over to play. She was a 9 or 10 yr old friend of my younger sister and lived two doors down from us. We were under the big tree in the backyard when my dad walked over. “Janice, who’s your dad voting for?” he asked with a grin. Janice perked up, “My dad’s voting for Hubert Humphrey!” she stated proudly. What followed wasn’t a discussion at all but a lesson for Janice on what a terrible president Humphrey would make. After a few minutes my mom came out and noticing the tears welling in Janice’s eyes, firmly said “Dan, leave Janice alone!” As he went back inside, he called back to her, “Remember to tell your dad to vote for Nixon, Pippi.” Janice had red hair and freckles and my dad liked to tease her, saying she looked like the character in the children’s book, Pippi Longstocking.

Most people are familiar with the saying, “Last one there is a rotten egg.” Racing to the pool or hurrying to the car, this would be shouted by someone in the group and no one wanted to be last. My dad used a different phrase. “Last one to the car is a Democrat!” he would yell as we raced to the car. In my teens I realized that this phrase was something only my family said.

There were many words and phrases that my sister and I picked up from my dad. I didn’t know Brazil nuts were called “Brazil nuts” until I was probably in 6th grade. When we played “eenie meenie miney mo”, it wasn’t a tiger we caught by the toe. As a teenager I would realize that the word I’d used in place of “Brazil nut” and “tiger” was a racial slur. When we went swimming at my uncle’s pool, my dad, a Korean War Veteran, had the kids shout, “Bombs over Tokyo!!” as we laughed and slid down the long winding slide.

As a child, hearing my dad comment on civil rights protests, Martin Luther King Jr, heroin, and marijuana, I remember knowing that the opinions he had were right, he didn’t like being wrong. I didn’t like being wrong either. At that time, I don’t remember him ever being wrong. He was my dad, he was smart and what he said was true. I had no reason to doubt it.

So, by the time I was a 7th grader, I believed that people who used drugs should be lined up and shot. I also believed that if black people didn’t like the way things were in the United States, they should be sent back on a boat to Africa, where they came from. That’s what my dad thought and so did I.

But something happened between 8th and 9th grade, that summer between Junior High and High School. I can’t pinpoint a certain moment or incident, or any special event. Maybe it was my expanding world or that I had matured enough to consider the opinions and views of others. I don’t know, I guess I was just growing up.

Of course, my thinking didn’t change overnight. It was a slow process that took years. Over time, I formed my own opinions and made up my own mind. I listened and read, weighing the facts, then deciding for myself what was right. Because I still didn’t like to be wrong.

But, changing my views on drugs, sex, race, criminal punishment and religion, far preceded the change in my political outlook. Imprinted on my brain at an early age, I held onto those values tightly. So tightly, in fact, that the decision to change my party affiliation was as hard for me to make as the decision to end my twenty-year marriage.

Maya Angelou wrote the truth: “I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.”

I believe that the person with the closed mind, the person who is unwilling to give other opinions consideration, the person who is so afraid of changing because changing means they may have been wrong, that’s the person who is the last one to the car, that is the person who’s the rotten egg.

Sydney Duke Richey writes from the heart. Inspired by everyday experiences, her poems, haiku and creative non-fiction come from a slice of her life. Sydney lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband. She has two children and two grandchildren.