I was about 11 years old when I met a pretty black girl named Blanche. That school in Virginia was predominantly white, but there were these two black girls who kept to themselves and who I would see together all the time.
They were not in my class, but I went up to them to make new friends. At the canteen after lunch, I would go to their table in the corner of the room to chat. One day, I gave her my picture, and she gave me hers. As for the other black girl, she seldom if ever said two words.
Then something happened, and I just couldn’t remember what it was. But one thing that I have felt so bad and so guilty about was that, I tore her picture in front of them. I never spoke to Blanche after that.
I have so wanted to meet her again and apologise. The remorse and the guilt have haunted me all these years. Then I decided to try to recall what transpired.
A few days ago, I remembered. She had reproached me for fraternising with my white classmates. She said I couldn’t be her friend for doing that. And after over thirty years, I finally felt relieved that tearing her picture was not as a result of meanness on my part. She wanted me to choose friendship based on skin colour, and that was a wrong factor in any criteria.
Racism is not confined to Whites, but because the Whites are racist, the repercussions of that is, so became the Blacks. I am Brown, and not belonging to either extreme, both Whites and Blacks do not consider me within their realm. I look down on neither colour, but only feel pity that colour is a factor in the likes and dislikes of people.
April 22, 2008 at 7:44 pm
But why you had something with that picture?
April 22, 2008 at 7:59 pm
It’s an 11-year old girl’s idea of friendship. When Blanche said she could no longer be my friend, the symbolism the picture represented was no longer valid.
December 19, 2008 at 9:24 am
Reminds me of 2nd grade.
It’s but a faint and fuzzy memory. I remember befriending this one black boy, gosh he was so funny, I just remember laughing so hard, I found him so hilarious. I forgot what he was saying, but I do recall practically being in tears at whatever comedic jabberwocky that was streaming out of his 2nd grade mouth. We didn’t exchange pictures, but I do remember he gave me, or let me borrow, a small black cap gun. Surprisingly (the way my memory is) I still remember his name, Earl Bates. I have no idea why or even how that name stuck with me all these decades, it was but a brief moment in time that soon became the past.