Sins of the fathers
By Todd Foltz

They walked into my record store with the faces of angels and the manners of saints and asked, perchance, if I would sell them something filthy.

Dressed in khaki Dockers and red braces, the clean-cut trio inquired politely if we sold any compact discs by the Detroit band Rahowa. That's Rahowa, as in the ever-so-witty pseudo-acronym for Racial Holy War.

The three intrepid young racists were more boys than young men. Barely old enough to have acne, none even had a shadow of peach fuzz shading his smooth cheeks. But they knew their place, and they respected their elders. They even called me "sir" ­ me, a 27-year-old long-haired rebel.

So young, these boys. So young and so impressionable and blindly accepting of some fool's prejudices.

And so gullible. Not only are they willing to swallow this virulent, racist tripe that Rahowa yowls out, but they are willing to lay down good money for really, really bad music. My neighbor's dog passes gas with more musical alacrity than the screaming fools in Rahowa play guitar.

I watched the three teen-agers prowl about my store and wondered despairingly how they could have developed a hate so strong in so few years. One scrawny boy asked if I sold any Oi, which is a type of melodic punk music that comes in two categories: that favored by skinheads who hate non-whites, and that favored by skinheads and punkers who do not hate minorities. Many of the skinheads who belong to the latter group and listen to the non-racist Oi are called SHARPS, or Skin Heads Against Racial Prejudice.

I explained to the boy that my store only sells SHARP Oi.

He screwed up his face in an attempt to look apologetic and intelligent, succeeding only in looking like he probably looked 15 years earlier when he needed to have his diaper changed. "That SHARP Oi is absolutely against everything I stand for," he said.

"Like teachers who grade on the curve or give extra credit?" I asked.

He looked at me like I was a crazy old man.

"What did you say, sir?"

"That's what I stood for when I was your age. That and longer recesses."

"Is that a joke?"

Actually, it wasn't, but I had quickly gotten to the bottom of his fear and loathing of people who don't look like him. He's really not too bright. Or at least not intuitive. But he's a rote learner who's damn good at regurgitating what he hears.

But the question is, where is he hearing this hatred?

It dumbfounded me that a kid like him could be deferential to a white guy like me, who wears a dog collar and black leather, and then crack sick jokes about a well-dressed black man walking down the street. I wanted to wash his mouth out with soap or even slap his face, like my parents would have done to me if I had ever uttered such stupidity.

But looking into this boy's green eyes and unswerving gaze, I realized his parents would be more likely to slap him on the back or slap their own knees in laughter if they heard his words.

Somewhere out there, this boy and his two friends have parents who are proud of their young, Christian soldiers, proud to have reared sons who keep their hair trimmed and their minds narrow and follow in their fathers' footsteps. Some families have a doctor in generation after generation; some have police officers or lawyers or actors.

Others have racists.

I could blame bands like Rahowa for propagating racism and hatred and bigotry among America's young people. But that's too easy. Because this boy wasn't trying to get attention by testing out the N-word before tittering and looking around to see who heard. He wasn't old enough or worldly enough to have experienced so much of life that a few bad experiences could have been internalized and distilled into hatred. Nor was he smart enough to have arrived at a reason for hating other groups of people on his own. He was simply stating facts as they had been explained to him over and over and over. The sky is blue. Blacks are scum. Water is wet.

That kind of certainty doesn't crop up from listening to Rahowa. It comes from growing up under the roof of parents who are afraid of anyone who doesn't share their beliefs or class symbols or skin color. And Rahowa wasn't around when these kids' parents were growing up. As much as I hate the syrupy sounds of the Beatles, I don't think we can blame the racism of these boys' parents on them. No, they got it at home, too.

And that's scary. But that's not the worst part. These kids who came into my store for racist music wore brand-name clothes and carried enough money to be able to buy luxuries like music. They weren't barefoot; they weren't driving a beat-up pick up truck with a rebel flag on it; and they weren't droolingly stupid like all the racists you see in the movies. Until they spoke, they seemed like boys I wouldn't mind my niece dating.

If ignorance and hatred can wear the mask of angels, how many masks are there?

Todd Foltz actually found a copy of a Rahowa album and gouged the hell out of the price, making a huge profit on the sale.

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