"Hate starts at our kitchen tables"

Years ago, on the nights I couldn’t sleep. I would Google them. My collection of bullies from elementary, middle, and high school. I would wonder, where are they now? 

A mix of quiet anger, curiosity and deep sadness would take over. I remembered their first names, their last names. What they looked like. The horrible things they said. The horrible things they did. 

Years later, as I moved forward, I realize that my emotions were misplaced. I should have spent my time wondering about their parents, their families, who sat around their kitchen tables. Because hate. Hate starts at our kitchen tables.

And it doesn’t always start out as hate. 

Sometimes, it’s all just in good fun. It’s funny. It certainly was for me. I was just the funny looking girl. 

A funny looking dark skinned girl with a long black braid with a funny name who wore funny jewelry carrying her funny-smelling lunch who would get dropped off in a mini-van which some days played funny music, whose funny looking parents would waive bye, who also spoke funny and wore funny clothing. 

It was funny. Until it wasn’t anymore.

Because, when there’s the giggle or laugh. The funny joke, the funny thing, the funny story, that we share. When we laugh along. When we don’t laugh. Because it’s not a big deal. Let’s not be overly sensitive.

When as the parents, the caretakers, the guardians. We start the breeding ground for hurtful stories about those from communities we don’t understand. And when we don’t understand, it becomes easier to tell ourselves more stories and more stories about these people who are so different from us. 

And when it goes to that very dark, that very ugly place- it becomes hate.

“Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” This is what I was taught from an early age. The school yard rhyme which encourages anyone who is different to suck it up, be strong, don’t react. It doesn’t matter what they say, how they say it, when they say. Because it won’t hurt me.

And it’s one of the worst things I can be teaching my children. I want them to know that sticks and stones will break their bones. And guess what? Names will crush their spirits.

So when we sit at our kitchen tables. What should we be doing?

Let’s be careful about the words we choose. To describe people who may be in some way different from us. This person is: Funny-looking. Lazy. Strange. Angry. Fat. Trouble. A Cry-Baby. Crazy. Smelly. Awkward. Looks dirty. Not the brightest bulb. 

Let’s stop our kids when we hear the funny joke, the funny thing, the funny story. About someone who is different. And let them know it’s not funny and why. Let’s stop telling the funny stories ourselves.

Let’s not be scared to talk about what makes us different. And that we are proud of our collective differences. What we can learn from each other. How we can respect each other. How we can protect each other.

I thought this weekend about those who were murdered in New Zealand. I prayed and continue to pray for them. I also thought about the monster Brenton Harrison Tarrant, who murdered the innocent New Zealanders worshipping in Christchurch mosques. 28 years old. I wonder. Was he born a monster? Or was he also once a child who sat at a kitchen table? 

What was his kitchen table like? Where did he grow up? What was his community like? 

How did his heart fill with so much hate?

All of our kids are listening to us. All of the time. It’s amazing the power we have over them. They can become the best version or the worst version of us. And in the case of what New Zealanders witnessed on Friday, an unimaginable, nightmare, horrific version we hope to never, ever see again.