Excerpted from Woman with a Voice: Daring to Live Authentically Ever After

by Vicki Hannah Lein, MS Counseling © 2005

When we listen to a racist, sexist, or anti-Semitic joke we are colluding with hate. It is not easy to be the one who says “No.” We risk losing friends, approval, even family members. But what are we saying about ourselves and what are we teaching our children when we allow beloved Uncle Joe to tell yet another racist joke this year at Thanksgiving? Fighting injustice may be very expensive, but allowing injustice to flourish is toxic for our souls.

I don’t say this lightly. Stopping my dad from telling me a racist joke was one of the bravest things I have ever done. The irony is that my dad had taught me the evils of racism when I was a child, but on this day, when I was in my early thirties, he decided in a phone conversation that he could tell me such a joke.

As I realized what kind of a joke we were headed toward, I was terrified, my heartbeat was drowning my hearing, but Dad had crossed the line. Maybe I couldn’t always stand up for myself, but I could stand up for my children. I would not bring them up in a racist environment. There was not a cell in my body that could hear a nigger joke and remain silent. (I can barely type the letters to make that word.)

When I saw where the joke was heading, I interrupted Dad and said, “Dad, I don’t like those kinds of jokes.” I was as brave as I had ever been, facing a scary enemy, a man who I had seen physically attack my mother and verbally assault anyone who got in his way.

“My, aren’t we high and mighty,” he said. High and mighty — for not wanting to hear a racist joke? He was trying to shame me into submission, but I repeated, “I don’t like those kinds of jokes.”

He hung up, and that was the end of my relationship with my father. Oh, we have seen each other since, had a short lunch even, where I gave him pictures of my children and copies of songs I had written. But this was the end of his calling me or coming to visit, the end of the thin semblance of a relationship we had.

My father does not know my full name, nor would he recognize his grandchildren if he met them on the street. I have not spoken to him for more than ten years, not since I lost my vision, got divorced, remarried, and became an international speaker. Simply saying “no” to my father severed our relationship.

Was it worth it? Would I do it again? You betcha! The entry fee for a relationship with my father is too high. I will not sacrifice my deeply held beliefs in the hope my father might love me. I will not allow anyone in my life to abuse me or abuse those I love. I take a stand for justice, and I will not change that because I want someone to love and approve of me. This was a huge act of courage for me, the first of many steps that have led me to the life I now lead. I do not know how people can be truly happy, truly authentic, if they sacrifice their honor in order to be loved.

Epilogue

At Oregon State University in the summer of 2006 I was asked to present to a faculty class on the subject of “Finding Magic in Adversity.” (I am legally blind.) While there I passed around my book from which this excerpt is taken. When I wrote the book, I put a “spell” on it, — the “spell” is that I wanted it to be a book someone could turn to and find just what she needed.

When I paused for questions a woman at the far end of the table, way too far away for me to be able to see her, said, “Vicki, I was looking through your book and it fell open to the story about your dad trying to tell you a racist joke. I read the whole story. I am African-American and when I teach my class on discrimination, my students must deal with this issue when they return home for holidays and are faced with their relatives’ habits and attitudes. Thank you for writing this.”

I got chills. What were the chances that the one story I wrote about stopping a racist joke would be the story she would turn to and read? I guess my spell works.

Blessings,

Vicki

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