MEA CULPA

 

In a slight departure from racing into the realm and meaning of “real” life, Ol’ DC needs to again use some space to fess up for having screwed up “in racing.”

Years ago, actually about two decades ago when given deeper thought, Ol’ DC’s father, Mr. Williams, was altogether lost when the bedrock of his life, his spouse, Ol’ DC’s mother or “Mrs. Williams,” passed into existence’s next domain.

Soon, Ol’ DC’s father joined a household that included his son’s spouse and two daughters barely out of diapers.

Ol’ DC, having the luxury of working from home, was their primary caretaker. It was a role gladly embraced, if nothing else than because Ol’ DC would provide an environment where knowledge and its acquisition was of paramount importance.

Being the functional equivalent of sponges absorbing water, learning the world around them offered lessons quickly learned, though mistakes frustratingly occurred, they being human and all.

That they later graduated summa and magna cum laude in high school and college is offered as proof that the two, now respectively undertaking graduate studies, indeed learned knowledge is “king.”

Bereft of his great love, Ol’ DC’s father, their grandfather, relished the opportunity to hang with his only grandchildren and, generational information being an important part of any family’s firm grounding, he was a welcomed part of a newly expanded household, albeit wedged in a house that hadn’t simultaneously transformed its size.

With only one wall separating the father’s room from his son’s office, father and son often and easily bantered, sometimes jokingly spurred by one having first talked only with himself or, at other times, when a television’s talking head initiated a “conversation.”

Thus it was one day when Ol’ DC heard him say, “. . . little black girl.”

Think about it enough – “little black girl” – and one can only come to the conclusion that it’s “discriminating” language that has more to do with singling out ethnicity than gender or a person’s size.

As once did I and as have others since, my spouse used to say it without actually thinking, for she claimed – and after 30-years of marriage this spouse can attest – she’s not a bigoted soul.

Yet, innocent habit or no, it had no place in ordinary, casual discourse and the expression needed to be omitted unless specificity dictated otherwise, Ol’ DC insisted.

It’s not easy for a son to dictate anything to a father, but after having heard and together logically considered the place of or, rather, the “lack of place” for “little black girl” in nearly any conversation, a father then agreed to modify his words.

The principal reason for drawing the distinction and seeking moderation was simple: exposure to bigotry is the principal reason behind its perpetration, whether the damnation of ethnicity or gender being at the root.

One day, though, Ol’ DC’s oldest daughter, Rachel, came home from public school – one considered to be among the top elementary schools in the area – and quizzically repeated to her father a word she’d learned only days shy of “graduating” to second grade.

“Have you ever heard the word ‘nih-jur,’” she struggled to say phonetically, contorting her mouth in an effort to get the word out.

Yep, it was the “n” word; “nigger.”

Ol’ DC was absolutely fit to be tied. Having expressly banned the word’s use by anyone in the household or related to it, that they’d ultimately learn of it in school didn’t seem too farfetched to expect, even if unwanted.

Yet, it was learned from a teacher, whose intention was honorable in the end but who had first used the word as means by which to insist her charges not use it. The logic didn’t catch with me, honestly, but the cat was out of the bag and, after Rachel and Camille were exposed to yet another discussion of the subject – this time at their home – the word was no longer heard around our house.

One day, with Rachel and Camille back at school and their grandfather and father still separated by that same, single wall at home, “kike!” suddenly was yelled from one side of it.

Arising from his desk, a short and quick walk placed Ol’ DC in his father’s doorway, asking “What’s up?”

“Oh, those damn Jews . . .”

His conversation interrupted at the “s” in “Jews,” a son again was at odds with the words of his father and was making such known, vociferously so.

In short, knowing the degree to which he loved his granddaughters, Ol’ DC’s father was explicitly given a choice having a very sharp, defining line: no bigotry in any manner whatsoever or no granddaughters.

It mattered not where, when or about whom. Additionally made clear to him were that no exceptions; no excuses would be accepted from that point forward.

In the following seven years that remained in his life, not once did that grandfather utter another pejorative expression regarding anyone’s ethnicity or culture.

In a recent post-qualifying Watkins Glen media center news conference Question and Answer period Ol’ DC posed a question of Max Angelelli which contained the words “. . . death-camp look . . .”

Angelelli looked a bit pekkid, a physical condition to which Ol’ DC clumsily attempted reference.

The ineptitude, if not downright stupidity of having used those words hit Ol’ DC about two-milliseconds following the words’ departure from Ol’ DC’s mouth.

Neither malice nor forethought was first undertaken in their formation, no grand plan of defamation, it was just a mind’s eye seeing one thing – a physical presence – and, in the words above, an unfortunately lame attempt at drawing a quick, verbal analogy.

Now dropping the formality of second or third-person references:

Mine was a brain fart, pure and simple, but one at which at least one unknown other took offense and expressed such to Grand-Am.

Mine was a stupid, dumb reference behind which was absolutely no intent to offend, glibly or otherwise.

I know in my heart, and as has been exemplified in the general conduct of my life’s six decades, that injury of another with those words was completely unintended.

Furthermore, people who know me also will attest that I will unreservedly go toe-to-toe, face-to-face with anyone with whom I’ve a bone to pick – including a man who gave all that he could so that I might live – and that I do not resort to vague references as a means by which to attack, whether verbally or within the confines of writing.

Yes, such at times has caused ill feelings – ask representatives of Porsche or Chevrolet; individuals like Wayne Taylor and, even, Jim France – but at least folks know where I’m coming from, unequivocally so.

But I’m not a bigot or racist – or, at the very least, I do not wish to be.

That someone, anyone, whoever it may have been was offended by those three words was not my intent.

Yet, it now has become one of many lessons learned in a life that will end far sooner than a lust  for the lessons it offers.

It’s also a lesson I ardently hope won’t again be repeated - but for the occurrence of which I nonetheless and sincerely apologize.

DC