Racism is something I’ve come to hate with every fiber of my being—but I didn’t always feel this way. I grew up a racist. Ironically, my racism was fueled by the hate I experienced as a Hispanic child. Both white kids and black kids targeted me, and I couldn’t understand why. The more I was bullied, the more hatred festered in my heart.
Growing up in Florida, my family worked hard—relentlessly hard. My dad was a foreman at an orange processing plant, and after school, my siblings and I would pick oranges alongside him. Before school, after school, weekends—it was constant.
I’ll never forget moments of cruelty. In first grade, a boy named Billy tripped me and tried to hit me with a rock, but my friend Johnny intervened just in time. Another time, I defended my sister from a group of kids by swinging my belt buckle until teachers broke it up. These kinds of experiences were routine, and over time, they turned me into someone I didn’t like.
When we moved back to Texas, I lashed out. On my first day of school, I beat up a white boy named Tony for no reason other than anger. I’ll never forget what he said—it forced me to look at myself. I realized I was becoming like those who had mistreated me, and I hated it.
So, I made a choice: I stopped. It wasn’t easy, but I made a conscious effort to change. Slowly, I began to spend time with people of all races, and I saw the good in them. My sense of humor helped break barriers, but I still carried bad habits and bitterness deep down.
Everything changed when I got saved. At 13, I started working full-time at an officers’ club for the Confederate Air Force. There, I met people from all over the world—veterans, civilians, even a survivor of the Hiroshima bombing who became a close friend. These relationships opened my eyes to the value and dignity of every human being.
But it wasn’t until I encountered the love of God that I truly found freedom. His love gave me a purpose: to share the gospel with anyone willing to call on Jesus for salvation.
Even now, remnants of my past creep up. Sometimes I say something thoughtless, and my son will point out that it sounds borderline racist. Those moments humble me, and I seek forgiveness from my family and God.
Racism has an ugly history, not just in my life but in the world. I’ve read about the horrors of medical experiments performed on enslaved black women, who were treated as nothing more than property. These atrocities are a stain on humanity, just as the Holocaust was. And while racism has touched every group, the suffering of black women in particular during the 1800s is something history cannot erase.
When we talk about who built this country, it’s fair to acknowledge the role of slaves. Their labor was foundational. Yet, no matter our background, we all share a common humanity.
Hatred divides; love unites. I’m grateful God’s love triumphed over the hate in my heart. My prayer is that we continue to learn, grow, and love one another as God loves us.
