With Love to Pittsburgh

I've often explained that Pittsburgh chose me.

A life as a nomad, the daughter of a military family, living in places from upstate New York to southern California and everywhere in between. North Dakota was the place I knew best, but the very second I first laid eyes on Pittsburgh after emerging from the Fort Pitt Tunnel, I knew. I knew it was the city where I belonged.

It's a strange feeling, that. It's the feeling of being home laid beside the feeling of not having a clue where you are. I couldn't have told you the difference between Squirrel Hill and Shadyside, but it didn't matter.

Home.

I chose Pittsburgh, but only after it chose me.

It's not a perfect place. It never has been. Several times each week I go straight when turning right could save me a few minutes. I prefer to let those few minutes drift away rather than drive past the house with the giant, tattered confederate flag hanging outside. You can say it's a difference of opinion or a sign of rebellion but that's all crap. It's a symbol of hate.

There are more symbols of hate than there were a few years ago. While I've avoided that flag for probably six years, I now can't avoid the bumper stickers on mailboxes and trash cans that have popped up in my neighborhood. A Trump sticker strategically placed in plain view of the one Hispanic family. It's turned slightly so that it always faces their windows, a passive-aggressive reminder that white supremacy sees them.

The Hispanics' house has been vandalized. It was blamed on "punk high schoolers" which maybe was what happened, but it wasn't a coincidence that it happened to THAT house. Hate blames its woes on people who look or believe differently for no reason and it passes that on to the next generation.

The vandals struck recently, but the hate has lurked for years. Did I ever mention that I once fired a trainer for racism? The trainer was teaching a safety class and someone tipped me off that things weren't quite right. When the trainer stopped by during the lunch break to ask a question, I asked him if he offered any classes in Spanish. His reply? "REAL Americans speak English. I will never provide training in other languages."

I chose Pittsburgh, ugly hate-filled warts and all.

It's been said that "we're better than this."

We're not.

Pittsburgh, much like all of America, is full of hate and bigotry. We always have been. We aren't better than this, but we're in a position to make that choice.

We can be better than this.

Comments

[heebie-geebie]

I am so sorry that this tragedy happened in your city.