This is a short essay dealing with the consequences of our actions and how even innocent choices may lead to unintentional results.

When I was growing up, I never thought about racism. My grandmother was full blood Blackfoot Sioux but except when the Summer sun tanned me to a dark brown; I looked like your average white kid. Maybe it was because I grew up in a white neighborhood. All through my childhood, I never heard a racist remark. It could have been because there wasn't a target for the ugliness that is bigotry. I like to believe that it was because I was surrounded by good people; not perfect but good. Even when an Asian family, and later a black family moved onto my block, I never heard those awful words of hate.

Now that I am an adult, I realize just how strange that must seem to those who faced hate all of their lives. Growing up in Texas in the 50's and 60's, I now realize that the hate was there. I just never felt it or saw it. That didn't stop me from becoming an unwitting participant.

Like most boys of my age, I grew up with the stories of World War II and the Civil War. TV and movies made them the stuff of fantasy. Army men and playing war. It seemed so innocent. That's probably why I decorated my car the way I did. I was 16 and the proud owner of a very used Rambler. The headliner in the car was shot and that's why I pinned up a Confederate flag to replace it. It looked cool. It came from a time that so many thought romantic. I just didn't put things in perspective. Joe taught me how.

When I was 16, I worked for an ice cream store. I had been working there for 2 years. That's how I met Joe. Joe drove the big 18 wheeler that brought us the ice cream and sherbets. He was about 6 foot 4 and the strongest person I knew. He was friendly and treated teenagers nice. He was black, but what was important to me is that I felt he was my friend. I'm pretty sure he felt the same way about me, at least until the day the truck broke down.

Joe had just made a delivery to our store when he noticed a problem with the trucks reefer unit. He knew what he needed and after a couple of calls, he located the part he needed. I volunteered to drive him to the parts store. I remember that we were joking as we walked out and got into my car. As he sat in the front seat and noticed the confederate flag pinned up, the smile disappeared from his face and a look of betrayal replaced it. "What's this?" he asked. I told him it was something that I'd picked up at 6 Flags Over Texas and used to replace the headliner. The companionship and bantering was gone, replaced by worry and suspicion. I could clearly see it in his expression. Was I one of "them"? Was I one of the haters? Why would I show what for him was an emblem of his ancestors pain and degradation? After that first question of surprise, Joe never mentioned that flag. He never questioned my motives or views. The pain in his face was all that he offered me as insight.

Sometimes you can be naive, dumb, innocent or just young and still hurt another person. At least I learned. What had been fantasy and the romance of an earlier time for me, was a time of remembered suffering and pain for others. The world has enough people who hate on purpose. Through Joe's eyes I learned that I don't need to join them. That day, that flag became trash.