It hits like a dart. A dart, thrown without warning, that pierces your armor. A word or two that won't break your bones but inflicts great harm. That time when someone said something that hurts. The surprise, of course, is that they said it and your are required to respond. No getting away from it, their outrageous belief demands attention. To remain silent is complicity. The kind of complicity that you decided long ago never to be a part of. Yet, here you are, silent. There are reasons for your silence. Assumptions made by someone in your environment mean that the offending person did not think that you would mind their racism, or sexism, or ridiculous beliefs. You do, but there are reasons for your silence. Sometimes, survival. So here you are, an eye witness to racism, and you have a difficult time responding. Case in point: In the early summer of 1970, I found myself with a small group of friends travel...
I call it the "Hipster" barber shop. It's run by millenniums and has all the trappings of their influence. Most of the men who cut hair there have at least one tattoo, facial hair, and work schedules that give them ample time off. The women who work there fit the age demographic, have tattoos, and are as friendly as the men. You can have a beer, a shot of whiskey, or even a non-alcoholic beverage while you wait. In place of the strictly male barber shop reading material, you might find coffee table books, or copies of Rolling Stone, or perhaps the local community newspaper. Most people waiting just sit with their phones in front of their faces. The background music is often hard rock, or blues, or perhaps a local radio DJ. Within this establishment, I go to the same barber, a 29-year old man called Dash. My wife goes to a 30 something woman called Cash. Cash and Dash, is that Hipster enough for you? Dash and I have good ...