The spark that lit my flame
Long before I took the last name Brazelton in marriage, I was known as Chris Julkowski. I grew up in the 1960s and 1970s at a time when ethnic slurs and derogatory jokes were commonplace. I heard many of these jokes, but commonly the Pollock jokes. Rather than be defeated by this kind of humor, I bought a Polish joke book. I learned many of the jokes and rather than be laughed at, I told the jokes myself so I could laugh with my would-be tormenters.
My grandfather, a first-generation immigrant from Poland, hated jokes about Poles. An attorney and State Senator, he steered clear of them and also prided himself on not using “dirty” jokes despite hearing them frequently among his colleagues. I loved Grandpa Julkowski and really it enjoyed when it was my turn among my nine siblings to spend time with him and Grandma at their cabin up north. Fishing, playing checkers or cards, I looked up to them and for a time wanted to follow in Grandpa’s footsteps and become an attorney myself.
I knew that my grandparents were not happy that my father had married a woman of Irish descent. They were 100% Polish and proud of it, and wanted his descendants to be, too. When young, I saw this as a matter of pride and not meant as a slight to the Irish or any other group.
When I was in my teens I was with my grandparents visiting my grandmother’s sister who was introducing us to her daughter’s new husband. He was of Japanese descent. I was standing next to Grandpa and heard him mumble something about the “slant-eyed” children they would have. I was shocked, and grateful that the others did not hear the comment.
I attended high school in West St Paul and many of my classmates were of Mexican descent. I dated young men who were white. I dated young men who were Mexican. When I moved away from home, my first apartment was in St Paul and I got to know people in the African American community and dated some of them, too. My grandparents had sold their cabin, so I didn’t see them as often, usually just on major holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. Due to the size of our family, dates were not invited.
Eventually, I married an African American man in a small ceremony. I gave birth to a child who is bi-racial. I knew my grandparents would not approve, so I stopped showing up at family gatherings. When my daughter was a toddler, I sent them a Christmas card and enclosed a photo of her. I got a card back acknowledging their disappointment but inviting us to their home. I lived closer to them than most of my siblings, so when they needed help getting to the grocery store or with other chores I would offer to come and help. My husband mowed their lawn. Grandpa offered him a quarter. I am grateful that they never let on to my daughter how disappointed they were. After they passed away, an aunt shared with me how I had broken their hearts. I don’t know if they said the same thing to my sister who had married a man of Mexican heritage. We did laugh about how Grandpa had offered him fifty cents to mow the lawn.
This was my spark to be interested in working on diversity and equity issues. Knowing that many ethnic groups, including my own, had been ostracized and made fun of, I became more interested in addressing how and whether we learn to accept each other simply as fellow human beings.
