So perhaps this is a bit of an ill-advised post. But the truth of the matter is, the civil rights movement of the 1960's was the culmination of years more than a century of people working. Many of those people were white. Beyond this, today it is easy to only focus on the wrongs done to ethnic minorities. We focus on skin color and forget that we were once much more divided. The Irish in particular suffered greatly before finally being accepted. Jewish people continue to find persecution, even though to the naked eye some would be considered white. I mean to take nothing away from those who have been made to endure discrimination because of the color of their skin. But the voices against such practices go back a long way, and my ancestors were among them.
Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote a novel called
The Minister's Wooing in which she popularized the rivalry between Rev. Ezra Stiles, and Rev. Samuel Hopkins. The Rev Hopkins is my 10th great-grandfather. Not always rivals, these two once jointly penned a letter criticizing "the great inhumanity and cruelty of enslaving so many thousands of our fellow men every year." While living in the capital of the New England slave market, Hopkins preached against slavery. In 1776, Hopkins published an anti-slavery pamphlet titled
A Dialogue Concerning the Slavery of the Africans. This was addressed directly to the Continental Congress. In 1784, his congregation voted to exclude all slaveholders from their congregation.
Before Samuel Hopkins, my 11th great-grandfather Abraham Isacks Opdengraef was a part of the first protest against slavery in America at the home of Tunes Kunders in 1688. Abraham was born near the lower Rhine in Germany. He made the trip to America along with his older brothers in 1683, to participate in William Penn's "Holy Experiment" in the New World. A fine craftsmen, Abraham won a Governor's prize for the "first and finest" piece of linen woven in the state of Pennsylvania. He was one of the four signers of a suppressed anti-slavery petition to his church. Included was a warning that the men being kept as slaves had every right to fight for their freedom. He was supposedly the subject of the poem
The Pennsylvania Pilgrim by John Greenleaf Whittier.
Lastly, I want to talk about my great-grandpa Quay. Grandpa was a product of his generation. He would use the language of his day, and it is not language I am going to repeat. However, actions speak louder than words. One of his dear friends was Willie Seals, a black man. Willie had been the star chef at the restaurant they owned. But he was considered a dear friend by the entire family going to weddings and funerals, and always being held in the highest regard. To this day his meals are legendary in our family. Beyond this, there is one other story I want to share. On a trip out to Vegas, a black lady and her kid were about to get kicked off a bus in the middle of nowhere. Grandpa stood up, said "no they're not", handed the driver enough to cover the rest of their fare and sat back down.
There are more stories, many lost to the sands of time I fear. At least two of my ancestors, Thomas Todd and Thomas Bentley, appear to have come to America as indentured servants. Thomas Bentley even appears to have been pursued as a runaway at one time. There is a lot of tension these days in this country around race relations. But I am proud to be an American nonetheless. My ancestors fought to build a country where everyone could live and would indeed be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. Where people could stand and be held in esteem or reproach as equals. Where people were simple people. Today, I try to live that out. I strive to avoid secondary and superficial characteristics in my speech. It matters not to me that a friend of mine is Asian, Black, Hispanic or White. Name an ethnic group anywhere in the world, and there is a chance that through the 501st Legion, I have a friend that can fall into that category. But before they are anything else, they are my friends. It is my hope that with the help of God we can continue moving to a place where the dream begun by my ancestors in this country and so eloquently expressed by Dr. King becomes a reality.
My Uncle John died Friday November 17th. I'm not really sure how to write about what I'm feeling right now. John was not a perfect man, not in the slightest. But he was a really good guy and I am going to miss him. I was his first nephew, and he was really excited to be an Uncle. I never got to know him nearly as well as I would have liked. In my mind, he was always funny. Genuinely funny, that was in part because he was able to get my dad laughing hard and could keep him laughing for a long time.
Beyond being funny, there was nothing, absolutely nothing that Uncle John couldn't do. Every time you thought you had found a job or something that he hadn't done, you would hear a new story about that one summer he spent doing some odd job that you wouldn't have imagined. My personal favorite is when he worked planting dynamite at a quarry. One time we were trying to figure out the best way to get rid of a stump on our place. He suggested a pipe bomb essentially, and when we asked what happened to the pipe in that scenario he just matter of factly said, "Oh that's easy, shrapnel." 
