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White Paint
"You cant play with us!" These words cut like a knife through my four year old skin. On the pre-kindergarten playground my request to play on the swings with two white classmates was denied. However, I was not about to take no for an answer.
"Why not?" I replied.
" Well, the only way you can play with us," said the other girl, "is if you go behind that fence and paint yourself white!"
I looked behind the fence for a bucket of paint that day, not realizing I had encountered my first experience with racism. For many years I did not understand why I had to be a color other than mahogany brown to play with girls who were lighter than myself. The year was 1993 and long gone were the years of Freedom Riders and marches for equality in public schools. Accusations from childhood peers who told me I was too dark and therefore not fit to play with birthed an obscure and definite vulnerability. Racist laws were dead, but the racist mentality was very much alive.
For the most part, my upbringing in the soybean rich city of Decatur was uneventful. This was the only encounter I’d had with racism. The small factory city prided itself on the ‘Racism: Not in Our Town’ sign placed next to the downtown water fountain. There was even a bold red line through the word racism. I always wondered if this sign was made before or after the Ku Klux Klan marched there in 1989. The peaceful demonstration was deemed lawful and therefore went on as planned, uninterrupted. Every high school party I attended was shut down by the police. I sometimes wonder if we could have kept the party going if we had worn white sheets over our heads. Continue story...
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