Words are not enough to judge

Growing up, my father was one of the most racist people I knew. Or at least I thought so at the time.

It was not uncommon around the Robarge household to hear the “N word” tossed around in casual conversation, along with similarly offensive references to Hispanics, Asians, Jews and any other group that somehow drew his ire.

I admit that I did pick up some of that from him, and that’s a shame I will always carry with me. I will occasionally drop an offensive term in conversation with trusted friends, but I also know such a slip in public – no matter how inadvertent – would bring an angry (and deserved) response. So, I include those among the words I don’t say in public (a list made up primarily of George Carlin’s infamous “Seven Dirty Words You Can’t Say on Television”).

Now-former Troy City Councilman Mark McGrath didn’t seem to have learned the same lesson, at least judging by the threeyear- old voicemail that included racially offensive language from the sixterm Republican representative and led to his resignation. Having gotten to get to know McGrath a bit over the two years I wandered City Floor in Troy, I know he is probably the first to admit what a major mess he made.

But I also expect in the next breath for him to vehemently affirm he is in no way racist … and I would be the first not only to believe him, but to personally vouch for him. What I can tell you from observing him both publicly and privately over those 27 months is this: He treated EVERYONE he came into contact with, no matter the race, color, creed, sexual orientation, with not only cordiality, but also with respect. And that’s something no true racist could EVER do.

But why do I believe so strongly that the words don’t match the public reaction? The answer is that he appears to me to be a lot like my father – and me – in our attitudes towards race. I didn’t realize it until just recently, with my father nearing age 90, that he’s no more of a racist than I, McGrath and likely MOST Americans (of ALL colors and religions) who will be honest with themselves.

I had an inkling about my father when he went to work nearly 40 years ago at a factory in Amsterdam that employed a lot of the Puerto Ricans and Costa Ricans who populate the city’s East End. After working there for about a month, he came home one night, sat down and admitted (with the racially insensitive word excluded), “You know, those damned ——- are hard workers.”

That line has stuck in my head ever since, and is probably a good description of his true attitude. I will argue with ANYONE that my dad, I and Mark McGrath are not racists, though at least I will personally plead guilty to racial insensitivity.

As somebody who has parsed words for more than three decades, let me shout this to the rooftops: racial insensitivity is NOT racism. Let me explain: Most baby boomers and older grew up in a time when there really was no such thing as political correctness, and people judged your words by how you MEANT them, now how they may have perceived them.

When I was hosting a local radio talk show in Amsterdam a quarter-century ago, I remember my general manager – and longtime friend (thank God) – nearly choking when he heard me refer to a neighborhood in the city where I had once lived as “Polack Hill.” Now, that is what the quiet residential neighborhood (well, it was back then, at least) had been called for generations, but he feared a fallout that could go as far as to cost me my job.

The next day, when I went on, I took it right to the listeners, and not a single one had any objection to the reference. Generally, the response was something like, “That’s what we’ve called it as long as I’ve been alive. What’s wrong with that?”

The fact of the matter is that while the term itself is offensive, its context isn’t. It refers to the history of the neighborhood – both good and bad – including the days when outcast Polish immigrants settled in that part of the city.

It’s ALL about context. Just because I drop an inappropriate word in casual conversation, don’t start sizing me for a pair of bedsheets. As I routinely joke with my friends, “I’m an equal opportunity offender.”