Saturday morning I went to the barber shop to get a haircut. I say barber shop because that's what it is. Not to be confused with a hair salon, the old fashioned barber shop I go to feels more like a sepia toned memory from my childhood. No pictures of models on the walls, abstract art, and no vanity fair or GQ magazines scattered around. You'll find no books filled with the latest hair styles. There are no backlit glass shelves filled with a variety of hair care products...the proper use of which baffles me.
My barber shop's plain white walls are covered with area high school, college, and pro sports lineups and schedules. There is an old magazine rack filled with copies of Sports Illustrated, Car and Driver, and Field and Stream. While you wait for a haircut, you can read the stats on your favorite team, find out about the latest car models, learn to tie a fly, or discover the 10 tactics for taking a trophy buck.
There are eight old fashioned barber chairs, standing side by side like a group of old soldiers in parade formation. Behind each chair dutifully stands a barber. The youngest of the group is about 50. The oldest close to 70. These guys are the real thing complete with combs, scissors, electric clippers, tissue for wrapping around your neck, brushes to brush away the clippings, and talcum powder to apply liberally to your neck when they're done.
Another interesting feature of the barber shop is the clientele. This shop is frequented by some of the city's leading men; doctors, lawyers, businessmen, politicians...you name it. A mirror runs the length of the wall behind the barbers. Taped to the mirror are autographed pictures of celebrities, mainly country music personalities. While getting my haircut, I've sat next to CEOs and fry cooks. You never know who will be there.
What does all this have to do with prejudice you ask, we'll I'm gonna tell you. My eight year old son and I walked into the shop. As usual for a Saturday morning, it was crowded...standing room only. My barber, let's call him Ed (not is real name), had an open chair and beckoned me over. Ed is a short balding man in his late 60's. He's soft spoken and a little deaf, which makes for interesting conversations while you're getting a hair cut. I don't know much about Ed's life other than the fact that his wife is ill, and his daughter and her teenage son live with him. After a few conversations with Ed, it is clear he's had a hard life.
Ed is a man of few words...most of them opinions. His favorite subject is Vanderbilt University men's athletics, specifically football and basketball. No matter what the season, I can always count on Ed to offer an opinion on how Vandy can win their next game. If you know anything about Vanderbilt, you know that between football and basketball, the only opportunity for winning seasons comes from the later. I should also tell you that I don't follow Vanderbilt sports closely.
Back to the story. Saturday, Vandy was preparing to play a particularly tough basketball game against the University of Kentucky Wildcats. Ed asked me if I thought Vandy would win. I replied something along the lines of they could if they make all their three pointers. That's when Ed said it. Something that surprised me so much I didn't know what to say. Ed said, "they'll win if that N... plays like he did the other night." Ed was of course referring to one of Vanderbilt's African American basketball players.
Sitting there, hearing that comment I felt a little like a guilty bystander. It is not a word I use. It is not a word my children know. As soon as Ed said it, I glanced around to make sure that my son was out of ear shot. He was across the room engrossed in a Sports Illustrated magazine. I didn't say anything to Ed, I didn't reprimand him or even give him a disapproving look. Rather I sat there in guilty silence thinking about the word.
I don't think Ed meant anything hateful by the word. Ed's a product of another era in the South, an era that thankfully started changing 50 years ago. I am convinced it is a word that he uses all the time. That's unfortunate. Think about his teenage grandson. Imagine growing up and hearing that word from an influential figure in your life. My own grandfather, who lived a life of wealth in relationships and caring rather than money, never uttered that word. At least in my presence. I doubt he said it to anyone. As I said earlier, my children have never heard that word. I know this because they are still at an age of innocence where new words are tested and tried out on mom and dad to gauge a reaction.
No. If I have to fault Ed for anything it's the small prejudices that live inside his heart. The world has changed, we've moved to a different place. Ed's still in the past. But...am I so different from Ed? I didn't challenge his comments or make my objections known. I just sat there.
Silence can mean many things. It can mean both thoughtfulness and ignorance. It can mean disdain. It can mean respect. Silence can also mean agreement. As I've searched my own heart I know I don't agree with Ed, if in fact agreement is the right term. I know I do not hold the same prejudices. I do hold prejudices though. Different ones, but ones I am sure are just as hurtful. Prejudices my faith tells me I shouldn't have. They are hidden. If I search hard enough I can find them though, waiting for an opportunity to come out.
Think about it. What are your small prejudices?
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