By Kenneth L. Hardin

As a child, I was told if you work hard, respect your elders, get an education and stay out of trouble, your path in life will be easy. I was also reminded that there are certain places you don’t go, people you don’t talk to in a certain way and to expect to be on the receiving end of a certain amount of discriminatory behavior. The only problem I had with that last directive is I’m not built that way, and grape-flavored Kool-Aid doesn’t flow through my veins. From an early age up through this writing, I‘ve always been defiant in the face of being relegated to a lesser position in life. Even when I was told multiple times serving as an elected official that I needed to learn my place by people who didn’t look like me, I showed I was unfamiliar with the locale.

My willingness to stand up to those who would see me as less than a man even caused fear and consternation within my family. One warm Southern night, well after 9 p.m., there was a knock on my front door. It unnerved me because I’m not the welcoming type that openly embraces anyone who shows up on my porch after the sun has set. I have particularly strong disdain for solicitors and any other social interlopers who didn’t call me first to announce their intention to visit. Standing on my doorstep was my father wearing a concerned look on his face.

He came into the living room with hesitancy in speech and approach. With downcast eyes, he cautioned me that he and my mom were concerned that my willingness to speak out forcefully against the obvious inequities, hate and racism that exists would have profound negative effects on my future. He outlined that if I continued to expose the unsettling underbelly of the seedy side of racial divisiveness, I would be unable to find employment, purchase a home or take care of my small but growing family. I stood there motionless and emotionless searching my mind for an appropriate response to this genuine but sad and misguided concern. In a moment that seemed to drudge on forever, I thought back to the directive I received as a child and had followed to the letter. I questioned in my mind if I had been so obedient, why was I now being told as an adult there was an addendum to those instructions. I looked at him and uttered softly, “I’m sorry but I refuse to live on my knees like so many people I see.” With that statement, I slowly exited the room. Twenty-five years later, we’ve never again referenced that visit or conversation.

I think about that tête-à-tête whenever hate rears its ugly head in this country, this city or my life. In September and the weekend after Thanksgiving, I was begrudgingly forced to look back. There were two instances of cross burnings, one in Mississippi and the other in South Carolina. This was not something I was reading in a his-story book regaling us with tales of intimidation against Africans in America by the KKK. This was 2023 and the sole reason was they didn’t want people who didn’t look like them living in their community. I wasn’t shocked or in disbelief that this form of hateful expression was still a weapon in this era because I’ve been touched by it within the last few decades myself.

Back in 1991, we were expecting our first child and found a beautiful home with a big backyard nestled in a quiet Spencer neighborhood. We met the owner/seller at the residence and was blown away at the huge backyard and all the accoutrements it offered. We spoke excitedly about how our first son would be able to run around the fenced-in yard and was thrilled about the opportunity to purchase. As we headed back to our cars, I noticed several white neighbors standing on their front porches looking stone faced at us. I threw my hand up, waving it back and forth, but not one returned my physical salutation. We happily put down a deposit and looked forward to moving in. A few weeks later, the seller reached out to us. Through a hesitant voice, he apologetically stated that neighbors didn’t want us to purchase the home or move into their neighborhood. I went back to the area, walked up and down the street, knocking on each neighbor’s door looking to introduce myself. Not one single person would answer their door. Fearing for the safety of our newly arriving son, we backed out of the deal.

As I look back today, sitting in a house we’ve purchased, those words taught to me as a child are hollow and meaningless. I realize now, a closed mouth never gets fed.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin  is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.