Tolerating Intolerance

I feel it is time to introduce you to my grandfather.

There's no particular outline or timing I'm following. I felt it was better to tell you what he just did rather than get out of my be to go yell at him. My parents tell me I'm not allowed to do that. They tell me he's old, and so I need to be tolerant.

I have trouble being tolerant towards people who are not tolerant themselves. And my grandfather's intolerance has little to do with him being 86. Or rather, it's not that he's old, it's that he was born a long time ago. And that's why I don't tolerate his hate, because it's not a result of his old mind slipping. It's been there all along, and I don't think we should tolerate hate just because that's what they learned back then. Just because most people did it or believed it back then doesn't make it right. Old dogs need to learn new tricks.

Briefly, before we get started on today's story, I'd like to share with you some history between me and my grandfather. When I was in high school I had a black boyfriend. My grandfather disapproved, and harassed my parents about it continuously. My parents did make me end things with the boy, but not because of his skin color, like my grandfather thought. It was because the kid was into drugs. That's a fair reason to make your daughter stop seeing someone. But I'm certain to this day he thinks he won. I've never forgiven him for what he put my parents through.

So back to today. My grandfather has a tendency to talk out loud when he thinks no one is around. Usually, it's because he forgot that I was in the other room. Often he's bitching about how horrible my mother is as a house keeper. My mother is not a horrible house keeper. My mother is running her own business, working around the clock, so sometimes the dishes don't get done right away. My grandmother was a house keeper. She raised my father, cleaned the house, and cooked dinner. That is what she did. She was an excellent cook, and she kept her house spotless, but mostly because that was her job. And so my grandfather can't figure out why my mother can't do her job. Not as a photographer. As a house keeper.

Today, though, it was a different rant. He was on the phone with the newspaper people. Something about not getting his Friday or Sunday newspaper. He explains the situation, gives them the required information, and then has trouble hearing the last question. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you....What? I still didn't understand you...oh, no, that'll be all." He hangs up the phone and then says, "Can't they get people who speak English?". He mutters a few other things about being in America, and then falls silent, reading the newspaper he did get.

Certainly it is frustrating when someone on the phone has a thick accent. And certainly immigration into this country is a touchy subject, especially with the fact that many immigrants have not gone through the proper channels. I get that. But here is what made me mad: my grandfather's parents didn't speak English.

My great grandparents are straight from Italy. "Off the boat," as they say. I've found them on Ellis Island's passenger logbook. I have heard countless stories about my dad being able to communicate with his grandmother even though she knew no English and he knew no Italian. My great-grandfather had to learn English, but he certainly never mastered it, and I'm sure his accent never went away. So why is my grandfather so intolerant of people who have not mastered English? The person on the phone certainly knew enough English that he was able to understand them up until the very final question. So why, oh why am I required to be tolerant of his intolerance?