There's a cowboy bar in the canyon that I visit every now and then. The last two times I was there I had conversations with racists. Yesterday, I was talking to an older man with one of those pot bellies that forms around the groin and works it's way up. I was drinking a beer when he came in. I felt his negativity right off, but I dismissed it, and talked to him anyway.
He told me he was from LA originally, but moved north when things started to change in eighty-four. Change is code word for too many immigrants.
He said he grew up on a chicken farm nearby. He was wearing a cowboy hat, and had a long gray beard. It didn't look like too much of a stretch.
He asked me where I grew up. I told him Montebello. His eyes dropped, and was about to say something negative, but stopped short and held his tongue. I could tell he didn't approve of Montebello. I've seen it before. There are a lot of Mexicans in Montebello and Mexicans are beneath some white folks.
The man said other things that made me think, okay I get it, he's a racist.
On my drive home I thought about the man. I wondered why he felt superior to other people. I mean, really. He grew up on a chicken farm.
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