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My Dad was always there with me, in spirit. Keep walking." I guess my point is that even though I didn't always understand why my life had to be one constant battle, our "family-values" - between myself and my Dad - carried me through. I'm not sure how I made it, but I still heard the sound of my Dad's voice, "Keep walking, Sher. My house was about nine or ten blocks away. Then, before I even saw it coming, whack, one of them smashed me in the shin with a two-by-four, fracturing my leg.īut, I kept fighting back so tenaciously that they saw that they couldn't defeat me, so they all suddenly ran out the door. I don't ever swear like that, ever, but, somehow, the word just slipped out, just as Jessi kicked me in the stomach and the others hit me in the face, a few times. I took a deep breath, let out a cuss word and got right back up, swinging. I'm proud of you." It was that pride that gave me the will I needed, right then and there. Then, I thought, "Is it worth it?" "Is being white and standing up for myself and my beliefs worth all this pain I'm having to put up with?" Then, I heard the echo of my Dad's voice, "You did the right thing. "Can this really be happening?" I thought to myself. I took a deep breath and shook my head in disbelief. Then, I got knocked to the floor and kicked in the face. How dumb can you be? There wasn't even a Skinhead anywhere in sight. I mean, they were so dumb that they actually were funny. They kept hollering about how they hated Skinheads, how all Skinheads should be "burned alive" and how I and my ancestors were supposedly all "KKK." I actually laughed in their faces, at the inaccuracy of their statements.

Jessi, the girl whose nose I broke, was with them. I put up a fight, but I was clearly outnumbered and at a disadvantage. Three Latino guys and five girls rushed in and jumped me. I didn't even have to turn around to see who it was. Two weeks later, I was closing the family pizza-joint we owned, when two cars pulled up. Keep walking." It was a happy feeling to have such support from my Dad. But when my Dad picked me up from the police department, the only thing he kept saying to me was, "Sher, I'm proud of you. On the way up the bleachers, when I had rebuffed the Latinos, I had split my leg open and it was hard for me to walk. But, sometimes, I guess, you have to do what is necessary, when a Skinhead isn't on hand. I totally agree with Skinheads that girls should not fight. We are just too fragile and break easily. Which brings me to my point of why girls should not fight. She did not press charges, so I was released to my father's custody. After they got me out of the gym, I had to deal with the cops and such. It took three full-sized men to pull me off of her. I lunged back at her, slamming her head between the bleachers and pounding her face. Then, one of them called me "Hitler," unleashed a barrage of profanity against me and my Dad and took a swipe at me. Just at the moment he turned around, I told the Latinos - nicely, actually - to quit their acting up. Then I caught, out of the corner of my eye, those little devils throwing ice at my Dad and mocking him by raising their hands in the air, as if they were saluting Hitler.Īfter the game was over and we shook hands with the other team, I walked up the bleachers towards my Dad. As the game was coming to an end, I kept seeing my Dad snap around and look behind him, like he kept getting hit by something. One night, at my volleyball game, my homecoming game, I spotted this gang of Latinos sitting behind my father. This really irked a group of Latino girls, which would constantly rag and attack me. The chief problem was that I was drug-free, white and proud of my blood and heritage. I used to come home in tears, because I was getting suspended from school all the time for defending myself against the Latinos. I got excellent grades, 3.9 - 4.2, but grew more and more resentful of school and conditions around me. I would get in fights, too, having to stick up for myself instead of knuckling under to what the Latino girls said and wanted. He, even, was often kicked out of the stands for getting in fights and defending himself when the Latinos would call him a "Nazi." Seems that our simply being of German-descent was a constant irritant to them.

I was known as a really good athlete and my Dad had a reputation for being my biggest fan but, also, for standing up against Latinos. It was a small enough town that everyone pretty much knew each other. I grew up in a small country town, Shasta Lake, California. Being aware and having pride Sherri Graeff