By Jade James

Nostalgia. Yesteryear. Something about the era of old Victorian houses and Big Band music comforts me. In my idyllic admiration of vintage dresses and Flapper Girls, somehow, I have the notion that this era was one that I would have loved to live in. The simplicity of life, sipping lemonade as I swung on my front porch. Basking in the glamour of actresses such as Jean Harlow and Greta Garbo. Visions of those contrasting thoughts are etched in my head. An era gone by.

Perhaps it was something about the glamorous, yet simplistic lifestyle of that era that draws me to the style of home most associated to it. I long for simplicity, beauty, nostalgia. And, perhaps in my naïveté, I took for granted that this period in time would welcome me too. As I stepped into a home that encompasses those contrasting thoughts in my head, I was comforted. The house held a strange familiarity to me, despite the OU banner proudly displayed in the garden. The wood floors, the tastefully decorated rooms with its arched entrance. The house typified what was so reminiscent of that era, and that drew me to it.

Living in a mindset of idealistic naivety is comfortable only until reality rudely sets forth its reminder of actuality versus fantasy. That period of time would not have been kind to me. I would not have been allowed to dance with the flapper girls or to watch the majestic performances of popular actresses of that time, unless it was in some second-rate back room or a segregated viewing. I would not even be allowed in the neighborhoods in which those lovely Victorians were so beautifully constructed, lest it be to serve at one. And, in that same dose of reality, with the same disappointment that many before me tasted, the familiarity and comfort of the house that I bonded with was yanked out of me, much like a rug from under my feet.

We blissfully waltzed through the house, noticing its unique charm and individuality. The garage with an attached workshop sat away from the house, in the back yard. After a brief debate on the garage size, and my casual dismissal of the workshop and its collection of lawn equipment and tools, a reminder of what I thought was yesteryear sit nestled in the corner of the workshop, not prominently displayed, but yet present, as something of a rude reminder that some things of that house were still left in the era of the thirties. Propped upon the shelf laid a plaque with a racist caricature that was popular from 1910-1940. And, as was popular in that era, the “N” word was prominently displayed on the plaque.

I am often unaware of my facial expressions, but suffice it to say that whatever the expression was, it was powerful. My brain was flooded with thoughts in an attempt to reconcile what I had just seen. Who, in the year 2015, owns such a vile creation? Was this person in some sort of time warp? Had this person checked out of the controversy of its beloved university, where people were captured on film uttering vile, contemptible things directed towards minorities? Were they in outer space when the University staunchly renounced this behavior, promptly expelling those who were involved in it? How does one own such a hateful piece of work yet prominently display a scripture in a bedroom? Are people really that hypocritical to think that the God that I know would be pleased with signs of hatred and bigotry?

Ironically, this situation helped me to make a choice that I think will benefit me in the long run. Imagery, fantasy, idealism…. those things are nice. Reality is sobering. I live in the here and now. I have no desire to live in a time where bigotry was rampant. I have no desire to reminisce in an era of oppression and degradation. I desire growth. I desire advancement. Out with those antiquated mindsets and thinking. I want progression.

I’m buying  a new house!