Before my grandpa built his own church, we went to the neighboring town, and it was a white community. You know, up north, mostly middle European people and Indians, Chippewa Indians. We were welcome to that church, but once we got in, they didn’t know what to do with us. They didn’t know what to sing, for instance, so they sang “Ol’ Black Joe.” I mean, it’s kind of a hymn-like song I guess, it’s a Stephen Foster. Now my grandmother was immediately incensed. My grandfather said, “You know, maybe they don’t know what to do with us. Maybe they didn’t mean any harm at all. Consider that.” So it was then when I began to say, “Well maybe my grandmother isn’t always right, and maybe I should not be a rabid racist as she is recommending.” Defensive racist, you know? And maybe I should take each person as an individual.