In the summer of 1964, at the tender age of 17, I opened the paper one day and the centerfold (which used to be all pictures) was filled with photos clandestinely taken at one of those grand old American traditions, a Ku Klux Klan meeting somewhere in the deep south. But when I saw a young mother holding in infant fully clad in a KKK outfit, complete with the requisite cowardly hood, that did it for me. Without a word to anyone, I decided to write and voice my own opinion.
Deeply affected by the civil rights horrors that were happening in the south at the time, I just could not abide the thought of people teaching babies to hate before they were literally old enough to walk. A few days went by, no letter. A few more days, again nothing. A novice at the time, I just shrugged it off and thought it was dumped into the newspaper's round file.
The following Saturday, a full week later, my father arrived home with a bag of groceries, and the newspaper neatly folded open on top. He unceremoniously placed it on the kitchen table and said to me, "Well kid, now you really did it." Clueless, I responded, "What did I do?" He pointed to the newspaper and I said, "Oh WOW, they printed my letter!!" Not only was it printed, but the very first letter at the top!
My father then said, "I can understand your feelings, but did you have to include your name? Why couldn't you make it anonymous?" to which I responded, "What good is an opinion if I can't stand behind my own words??"
Then the phone calls started...my father's psychotic brothers, SCREAMING that I "disgraced the family name," blah blah blah. The rest of the family's silent disapproval as they "tsk-tsked" about their niece's 'unconventional' and outspoken behavior. In my old neighborhood, 1964 may as well have been 1934, the mindset just never evolved. (With obvious exceptions, of course.)
And then the hate mail began to arrive from none other than George Lincoln Rockwell's delightful American Nazi Party, along with death threats. This rattled my father so badly, he had me temporarily move in with a relative just in case they 'found' me at my home address.
When the insanity began to subside in the fall, I was allowed to move back home again.
I continue to write letters whenever I see injustice, cruelty, and yes, ugly racism too. Amazing how, in 41 years, some things just never change.
And now that I've tacked my mother's maiden name onto my own surname, I get to "disgrace" both sides of the family! How lucky can you get?
