Each and every village, town, city, county, state, province and country wants to paint itself as having no prejudice when it comes to drawing tourists and the money generated by tourism. That needs to be worked on - a lot - in Colorado. My parents did their best to raise me as a person with no taught prejudice. Dad turned down the offer of becoming an officer in the US Navy when he was informed that if he made officer-grade, he had to cease playing poker with his friends, who were African-American, Hispanic, Asian and Native American. The family could have used the money that would arrive if Dad became an officer, but Dad refused to be cut off from his friends.
Dad was raised on a farm, growing up during the Dust Bowl, and knew the necessity of working hard. As a child, he was given the choice of working in the field for the afternoon, or playing in the waterhole with his brothers. The boys chose to play in the waterhole. When supper was served, everyone got a big first helping of all the food; when the boys reached to grab seconds, they were told that the men had worked, so they could eat as much as they wanted, and if there was anything left, the boys could split it. At that time, the two "hands" on the farm were an African-American and a Native American. The boys started to complain, and were informed that if they worked all day, they could eat all they wanted - but they had played. One of the boys complained that the two hands "weren't even the same color, let alone a family member" under his breath. Everyone at the table received a long commentary from Grandpa, and the boy who complained was sent to bed, then and there. Dad learned early that everyone was considered to be equal.
Mom, on the other hand, grew up on Chincoteague Island, in the state of Virginia, just below the Maryland state line. While she was growing up, there were only five families of African-Americans living on the island. And it was in the South. There was an unwritten, but understood "law" that people of color were not to be seen moving about town unless it was broad daylight; that there was a dusk to dawn curfew set for anyone of color. Chincoteague, with all of it's history - choosing to side with the Yankees during the Civil War - was not nice, or fair, to African-Americans. As a child, I remember a few black watermen on Chincoteague, but most blacks were employed as cooks, house cleaners, maids, or odd-jobs-men. I never really thought about the fact that there were very few people of color on the island.....
I was born in Virginia, and, by my fifth birthday, when Dad retired from the Navy, after 22 years of service, I had lived in Virginia, Tennessee, and Kingsville, Texas. When I was four, I was in love with the Hispanic boy next door, who was six, and I spoke better Spanish than I spoke English. Then we moved to Gainesville, Florida, and I received the majority of my education there; spending the school year in Florida, and most of the summer on Chincoteague. This was still the segregated south - Florida public schools were not integrated until January 1970, in the middle of my 8th grade year. Mom and Dad had continued to have friends of all races, and I had, also - but I went to school with white kids, even if I went to church with black and Latino kids... It was weird. We were equal in church, but not in school. Very strange.
In any event, the majority of my high school graduating class was African-American. We were proud of our school, and extremely proud that our high school marching band was frequently mistaken for the Florida A&M University marching band. We had soul. We could rock and strut with the best of the best. With school integration, I suddenly learned a lot about African-American history that I had not been aware of - and I was appalled. In high school, we learned about the Rosewood Massacre - which had taken place in the next county.
I guess I was a very lucky child, in that my parents wanted me to accept every single person as a person. Their skin color, eye color, and religious beliefs didn't make anyone a person to be shunned or afraid of. There is no denying that I am a white woman. I have Scandinavian and English blood in my veins - I have light colored eyes, very grey hair, pale skin, tons of freckles and lots of cherry angiomas - luckily, I've never been reported as a witch, for I'd fail all the skin tests!
I have three step-children: two daughters, and the youngest is a son. The eldest daughter, with red hair and freckles, married a white man and they have a daughter. The middle daughter, with dark hair, light eyes and skin, married a black man; they have a daughter and a son. My son married a black woman, and they have two daughters. All of my grandchildren are perfect! (Of course!) I love each of them equally. Period.
In the past year, I acquired someone to share an apartment with, to split the costs and save money. She is a 62-year-old African-American woman. She was born and raised in Denver; she was the first African-American cheerleader for the Denver Broncos; she and her siblings were the first black kids to attend a Catholic school in Denver. She is a wonderful friend and companion. My cats love her.
Two years ago, Beatrice, my now apartment sharer, and I went into an "upper class" organic food store here in Boulder. Ten seconds after we stepped through the doors, we had a "tail." The beverage manager stayed about one yard behind Beatrice, and mimicked her every move throughout our visit. When we complained about this via e-mail and by telephone, we were assured that the manager was on his lunch break and just happened to be going the way we were.... Humph! They also gave us a $25 gift card. We have not returned to that store - Alfalfa's - and we never will.
Yesterday, we decided to run up Magnolia Mountain and visit Nederland, just to get out of Boulder. We had a great breakfast at Turley's (here in Boulder), and then drove up "the back way" to Ned. We parked in the town parking lot, and wandered over to the small downtown shops. I was entranced with the geodes and trilobites and became lost in my own world. I didn't see that the cashier and clerks pointedly ignored Beatrice, and stepped into aisles so that Beatrice had to move around them. Helpful? In no way. We left quickly. Then we went into
The Rustic Moose. We could have spent several hours browsing through their huge selection of gift items - Bea bought several items, and I saw several that I want to purchase when I have more cash available. The ladies in The Rustic Moose were the exact opposite of the silent people in the gemstone shop. They chatted with both of us, asked a few key questions, and ended up steering us toward things that we both loved. The women who work in that store are saleswomen
par excelance. We had a very wonderful and reviving experience in The Rustic Moose.
I hope that cashiers, sales clerks, clerks and managers will read this and contemplate how they approach, or ignore, customers. Had the folks in the first shop been nice, they could have made a huge sale, instead of nothing. The Rustic Moose had a nice sales day, thanks to their friendliness.
