I grew up in a town that many people would consider rural. They might even be right about that, but Brownsville, Pennsylvania was/is an echo of what small town America used to be. It’s nestled in South Western Pennsylvania, about an hour south of Pittsburgh, along the Monongahela River. The town has some interesting historical value. It had been a settlement for as long as American history can go back; originally used by several groups of Iroquoian peoples, later settled, and the town grew around forts used throughout the French and Indian War and the Revolutionary period where it is mentioned (as Redstone Old Fort) in C. M. Ewing's The Causes of that so called Whiskey Insurrection of 1794 as the sight of the first meeting of what would come to be known as “The Whiskey Rebellion.” In time, it became Brownsville.

The Brownsville that I grew up in was a hollowed-out carcass of what was once a functional town. There were—and still are—abandoned buildings that speckle the town. Buildings that were once distilleries, hospitals, train stations, and imposing banks are now used by urban photographers for photo shoots juxtaposing their models in these buildings being reclaimed by nature. Brownsville is now, what many towns across Appalachia have become—a shell of what it once was. But Brownsville is more than just those buildings and history. Brownsville is now, and maybe more than ever, about its people. Because despite being considered “rural” by many, you couldn’t tell anyone we were hillbillies. We had everything from drug dealers to doctors, moonshiners to miners, and everything in between.

As a child I was raised in a dual parent household. In those early days, my parents walked the line between middle-class and lower middle-class. I can remember the days of government support and seeing my parents both strive for better till, eventually, they were firmly planted in the middle-class of America. But that came at the cost of two parents working three jobs. My dad pulled the load on that; but something I want to really touch on here is my dad’s willingness to be not only a part of my life, but be a part of the community as well.

My dad was always involved in my athletics being a coach of some kind. While I was “the coach’s kid”, he made sure that any extra attention that I got came at the cost of literal blood, sweat, and tears (that often occurred after practice) and not from preferential treatment. For most kids, when a practice was over, they went home; for me, and sometimes other kids that caught a ride home with us, there was always more work to be done. [Something one of my HS friends went on to call us “the blue collar running backs” based on that kind of work ethic]. I say all of that because my dad used athletics to teach the value of hard work—specifically when you do more than the guy next to you, the reward is almost always guaranteed. But that kind of special attention didn’t just stop at me. My dad was the kind of guy that would drive out of his way to pick up kids for practice/games whose parent(s) were unable to get them there. He would ride kids home from all over town. For a while, I don’t know that my dad was ever home before 9:00 PM, due to either working late at his second job or dropping off players from one of our youth sports teams. (I can remember one particular summer where a friend of mine lived with his father, in Pittsburgh, and my dad would make the hour drive to pick this kid up for games so that he could come home to play baseball with his friends.)

My dad would do things like that—whatever the sport, season, weather—because good people help out your community where and when you can. My dad would also do it regardless of anyone’s race, color, or creed. He wanted to see everyone succeed. He tried to be a good example not only to me, but the kids I ran with as well. I can remember a conversation where we were driving home from somewhere. It was just the two of us in the car and the topic of race had come up. Now, I honestly cannot remember how or why we were talking about it, but I believe that’s because of what my dad said to me hit me with so much gravity that my little kid brain zapped the rest of the conversation out (I should note that I was about 8-years-old at this time). But we were talking about a black friend and (I believe) how different races have different cultural aspects to them; and he says to me “…and one day you may grow to hate them for that, but if I do my job of being your father right, that won’t ever happen.”

As sure as you read this today I was shook to my core hearing that as a kid. I couldn’t imagine hating someone for their skin color or culture. But that phrasing that my dad used stuck with me always.

Now, as we all grow up, we learn that hating someone for those kind of reasons is a reality. All over the world it happens; but in Brownsville it was rare. I believe that was because we had parents that didn’t preach that kind of talk. I’m not as simpleminded to think that it didn’t happen (because it probably did), but I grew up in a community of neighbors. By that I mean your background didn’t matter to us. I grew up eating soul food with my black friends and they came to our house for pizza. While I realize my upbringing may have been a little different than everyone’s in my hometown, the overwhelming consensus was one of coexisting in a fun way that made our community what it was.

The current racial temperature of our country is rising. We’re seeing protests turn violent, people getting hurt, people losing businesses, people acting senselessly because people are agitating people instigating violence. “People” being the key word here. We’re all people. We all want a safe place to sleep at night and knowing that we can go out into the day unafraid of what may compromise returning to that safe place at when the day is over. Evil forces are at work to push a wedge into that. Protesting police brutality is called for. That’s not a typo. The facts/figures/statistics are there to support it being an issue. But these radicals interloping protests and instigating violence to drown out the voices of a crowd of people dying to be heard is unacceptable. I’m not here to push any agenda than that of what I just told you about my dad and growing up in an economically depressed area where we were all in it together regardless of race. If we can do it in Fayette County, then you can do it in your big fancy cities. If your city is so much better, then be better. I want my friends to not live in fear of giving a country to children where they’ll be hated by their own countrymen. Other countries are going to hate America for their own reasons. But we, as Americans, cannot divide ourselves like that. We, as people, have to work to improve our positions. We cannot let the failures of previous generations radiate into our lives. I want us all to embrace our cultures and our traditions and show the world we can do that peacefully.