Heads. Tails.

When you think "Florida", maybe you think of retired people in Hawaiian shirts, cruising around upscale golf courses.  Maybe you think of Miami, and neon nightlife and young men in rather tighter Hawaiian shirts, strutting their chihuahuas through the shopping district.  You might think of a booming Salsa culture; you might think bikinis and surfboards. 
We are not in that Florida.
The "Florida" of our town here is nominal.  Culturally? We are in South. 
There are a zillion reminders of that here.  The groups of people in red shirts on corners, a part of the scenery like any other landmark, hoisting up signs about Satan and salvation.
The number of pigs who have met their demise in order to support the local cuisine.  The tendency of vegetables to be cooked until they are nearly transparent. 
Some things are true in life.
One of those truths is that we exist in a world of dimension.  There are at least two sides to everything; to every story, to each of us. To a place, even. Like a coin.
And here is like anything, it has heads, and it has tails.
There are some lovely things about the expression of the stereotypical "Southern culture"; things we see here all the time.  A warmth and friendliness even from complete strangers that we can feel to our toes, especially after 5 years of cold DC shoulders.  The employ of manners in a way that is so automatic you think people here must drink "ma'ams" and "pleases" through the tap.  A willingness to go out of the way to lend a hand, say a thank you, adore a baby.  The propensity of 5-minute errands to stretch into 50 minutes of chatting at the cash register.  (I count that as a plus, since I'm a born stranger-chatter.)  There are a lot of things that feel comfortable here, welcoming.  Idyllic even.
But every coin has two sides.  Or, as Mark Twain put it, "each of us is a moon, and has a dark side we never show to anybody". 
I have also heard a woman refuse to take her children into a park because there were "sketchy homeless guys" there.  Who were not at all homeless, with their expensive shoes and shiny bikes and iphones.  But they were black.  I've noticed a lot of stratification at local events, almost like a middle school dance where the girls all stayed on one side of the room, and the boys huddled in the other.
And then yesterday, I walked my daughter to school. 
My daughter is three; she has a pure heart and innocent eyes, and on the way to school She saw flowers.  And pigeons on a phone wire, and a calico kitty cat.  She didn't notice yet, but I did, the emblems on the pavement, black and glaring and two feet tall. 
K.
K.
K.
She didn't notice, and so I ambled past, pointing out some morning-glories.  I made sure there was honey in my voice, but my heart was frozen over.
Now look.  I try to keep out of contention on this blog, for the most part.  One of the most important things about my friends, I think, and people in the world around me in general, is how they occupy spots all along the vast spectrum of opinion and values and personality.  Sometimes I most appreciate those with views who contrast my own, because it helps me question my own predjudices and pushes me to see from new angles.  And out of respect for the right of everyone to choose their spots on that spectrum and stick to it, I try to keep my own spot more or less to myself.
But those three letters froze my heart, and I don't care who knows it, or who agrees or doesn't.
And I don't care who saw me that day, in the middle of the road, in the full sunshine, on my knees in my high heels scrubbing the damn pavement. Twice. (Because it is as hard to erase from the road, I guess, as it is to erase where it came from.)
This is my neighborhood.  My children live here.  Go to school here.  It was written right at the corner of the Christian school next-door to Little One's preschool.  We pass that spot twice a day. 
So I don't care how many people slowed down to stare at the crazy lady, I don't care if venom rose up in them when they saw what I was up to, I don't care if all the other mommies noticed and think I'm nuts.  That was something inside the boundaries of my home life which I found to be too ugly to allow. 
Even after scrubbing with a stiff brush and solvent until my knees bled, the shadow of those letters are still there if you really look.  And in all the world try as I may, I can never erase hate altogether.  I'll never be able to remove it completely from my children's world, and even when it isn't spelled out, I know.  It's there.  Out there, hiding behind manicured lawns and smiling faces as much as it lurks in the shadows.
It was just some paint, or shoe polish, or something.  But it was a tangible reminder of all that darkness, a reminder that even in our own safe places, I can't protect Them always.  A reminder in my nice, middle-class white complacency that there is hatred and anger out there in the ether, so strong that it can coalesce and congeal and turn solid and take shape right under my nose.
A bunch of letters on the ground can't do anyone any harm.  But where they come from, what they are there to remind us of.... that can.  And it does.  Almost all the harm out there comes from the same deep chasm that those three ugly letters crawled out of. 
And so I'm shaken.  The bright light of this sunshine state has taken on a slightly duller cast and I find myself wishing I could see through people's hearts to know what's really inside them. 
I guess even if I did all I would find is heads, and tails. 
None of our souls are flat.  We all have this human capability to love, and also to hate.  Each of us has this potential to achieve wonderful things, and every single one of us has the ability within us to do horrible, ugly things.  We're all two-sided coins, just like the moon, just like Florida. 
At the end of the day I can't change that truth and I can't hide my babies from it; I have to accept that.
It won't do any good to throw the whole coin out; the good and the bad are stuck together. 
I guess all I can do is look for the heads and tails in my own heart, and decide which one to show. 
It upset me to be reminded of that chasm of darkness and how deep it runs, but I can say this.  That even if my three year old had noticed the writing on the ground, it would have meant nothing to Her.  It would have been of far less interest than the kitty and the morning-glories. 
It's true that there is an ugly side to all things.  But as long as there are little children, there's hope.