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lambchopp59

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Member since: Sat Dec 3, 2016, 04:31 PM
Number of posts: 1,457

About Me

Liberal, gay, tree hugging activist whenever I can afford.

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Familiar with that "one drop" rule am I


With a humorous 1960's and later revelation anecdote I can share. I was about 6 years old and confused why my father, myself and my siblings were relegated to a separate table in the garage at my grandparent's home come dinnertime when our great grandparents were still alive. Double down on that confusion when my grandmother explained it was because we had the "bad blood" (native American). Oh, my...
Convinced was I this was some sort of disease, when my mother took me to the doctor for a checkup upon our return home, I bravely held out my 6 year old arm and told the doctor he needed to test my blood. To the confused head tilts from both doctor and mom, I explained:
"Grandma said I have the bad blood." Mom turned a funny shade of red and said "I'll explain".
Fast forward 40 years, and a summer motorcycle tour of some of my relatives abodes with my lily white blood cousin proved out to be sickeningly interesting, some where I wasn't even welcomed in the door, and others where I was "jeckled", Fox Noise blaring in the background. (!?) What an embarrassing mistake assuming blood was thicker than prejudice. Embarrassed I'm related to these idiots and why my "polluted" branch of the family has always been on the west coast, separated. My brother explained it was also why my mom had to elope with dad to California way back when to marry him. I admit to some lifelong ignorance how just that bit of darker skin tone of mine... still has me "caste" as an untouchable. I won't make that mistake again.

Retrospective reflection on a moment of "white privilege".

It was summer of 1980. Ray Gun had just gained control and the "Moral Majority" idiots were riding their high horses.
I had finished putting together a wrecked Yamaha 650 twin out of a couple wrecked ones from the junkyard. I was itching to take a weekend ride. So from So Cali, I headed I-15 north, then I-70 west. I had taken Monday off so I could take a good junket. Saturday, after a tent night in the desert, I crossed over the Utah line.
Uh, Oh, here he came in a tire squealing police turn on the highway to stop that longhaired, slightly dark skinned motorcyclist in my Glacier glasses and California plates. I recognized right away that having my pink triangle button in view as he approached was probably not a point in my favor either.
He demanded me to kickstand my bike, yelled at me to stand at "attention" facing the road at a place about 10 feet away facing the road. I complied. He proceeded to dismantle my packframe, another backpack and my sleeping bag. He was intentionally throwing items of clothing into the muddy bog roadside as he pretended he was looking for drugs. The frustration this guy was experiencing at not finding any contraband was palpable. I had a suspicion he'd try to plant something, but one thing, I believe, stopped that effort. On the backpack full of first aid items I had my EMT patch. That troubled him. It wouldn't look good planting something into a medical professional's stuff. He stopped there, had more moments of wavering frustration, walked over, demanded my license and registration, I made sure my star of life card was also visible to him as I did, he "inspected" them and handed back to me in a second or so, finally yelled something akin to "watch your driving" as he turned to stomp back, slamming his oversized cop car door and spun the wheels taking off.
Now, three strikes against me with this older, grey haired, overweight and likely CONSERVATIVE "cough" "officer" "ahem" made me wonder... I wasn't speeding. I wasn't handling the bike in any questionable manner. What made him stop me in such an emergent manner?
And what likely would have happened had I also been black?
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