Is Racial Hatred "Baked" into the American Dream?

Artist - Estephan Whiteside

This Father’s Day, I found myself thinking of my dad.

My first memory of my father, who I love and miss terribly, was marked by racial hatred. It was a summer afternoon. I was six years old, and my family had just moved into an apartment complex in southeast Atlanta. I was trading toys with my six-year-old best friend, who was black, in the playground sandbox when my father approached. He demanded I go to the house, and for the first time in my life, I was beaten with a leather strap. That is the first memory I have of my father.

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