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  • Writer's pictureMichelle Meyer


Interpretation by Sally Ann Farrar

Once, when Rob (the husband) and I were riding in the backseat of a car with some relatives that shall not be named, we came to a stop sign. The unnamable relative in the driver’s seat started to roll through the sign and Rob quickly tapped him (gender reveal) on the shoulder saying… Hey, there are people crossing the road. You have to wait for them. The other unnameable relative sitting in the front passenger seat squinted at the crosswalk and said, Oh, they’re just Mexicans.

As if their “lower level” of ethnicity made it ok for us to run them over. Which, of course, it did not. Which Rob deftly pointed out when he replied in an incredulous tone, Yes, they are Mexican, and you still have to stop for them. Did either relative experience a moment of racial reflection? Or humility? Or shame in the face of their innate bigotry? Probably not. But we did. On our behalf and on theirs.

And we’ve never forgotten it.

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