Hot Sulphur Springs
My daughter, Katie, is 13 years old. She loves rhythm and blues, calico cats, and giggling on the telephone. She has a smile that lights up a room.
Katie is adopted, a “chosen child.” She is also black.
Not that skin color is an issue in our racially mixed family. Just as each of us has different hair and eye colors, skin color is just another trait that makes us individuals. It’s what’s inside that matters. Love, as they say, is blind.
Ignorance and hatred, unfortunately, are not.
Katie learned that lesson the hard way.
A few weeks ago, in a church parking lot, Katie was approached by a group of teenagers, strangers. One of the boys, smirking and jeering, planted himself within inches of Katie’s face and demanded to know whether she could “dance like a white boy” before launching into an exaggerated jig. Then, snickering loudly about “that black nigger,” he and his posse sauntered away.
Katie, sobbing and trembling, told me about it later that night.
Rage and disgust so overwhelmed me that I found it difficult to even breathe. But I was also overwhelmed with a flood of memories, decades old.
In Katie’s stricken face, I saw the face of a classmate, a girl I’ll call Mary. She was a shy, beautiful girl with skin the color of bittersweet chocolate. I met Mary when I was 7. She joined my class as the only black girl among a sea of little WASPs. Integration was finally being enforced in Louisiana. Although “separate but equal” had been ruled unconstitutional for some time, Louisiana, like the rest of the South, had stalled until there was no choice but to allow black students access to white schools.
From the day Mary entered second grade, she was a target. If she dared take a sip from the fountain, those in line behind her would make gagging sounds and refuse to drink. She was tripped in the hallways. At lunchtime, the boys would shout, “Last one out the door has to marry Mary!”
During recess, Mary stood alone against the fence, watching everyone else skipping rope and playing tag. The teachers stood by and pretended not to notice.
But no matter how stinging the insults, Mary never uttered a retort.
Once, I saw tears spring up in her dark eyes, but she quickly looked down and blinked them away. She carried her pain deep inside and held her head high. I’ve never seen such quiet dignity, before or since.
My young heart ached for her. I wanted to scream at everyone to leave her alone. I wanted to be her friend. We were so much alike, Mary and I. Both of us were shy, quiet bookworms. But she was black and I was white. I was terrified. As much as I longed to reach out to Mary, I was paralyzed with fear. I knew instinctively that anyone who dared defy Mary’s tormenters would become a target as well.
I knew that the only thing lower than being black at my school was being white and befriending a black. It simply was not done. I let my fear hold me hostage. It was safer to be invisible.
But looking back, I’ve realized something I didn’t notice all those years ago. Mary’s tormenters were only five or six kids among a class of 30. In retrospect, I believe most of the children in that classroom felt like I did: sickened by the cruelty, but too frightened to speak up.
I’m convinced that a silent majority of us let a small group of mean, ignorant kids have the upper hand.
If only we’d banded together. If only even one of us had been bold enough to step forward and cry, “Enough!” But instead, we simply watched, day after awful day, desperately hoping someone else would take a stand. No one ever did. I live with that guilt still.
So to those teenagers who stood by and watched while my daughter was mocked and humiliated by an insecure bully, I implore you to do what I was not strong enough to do. Surely, there was one among you who felt ashamed, who saw the pain in my daughter’s eyes and felt a twinge of remorse.
Be brave. Take a stand. Do the right thing. Yes, it can be costly. But not doing the right thing will cost you even more. I know.
Tess Riley, a former children’s librarian, is now a full-time wife and mother of four. Visit her blog at tessaegg.blogspot.com.
