Do Something About It

I’ve stood on the periphery of racism my entire life.

As a gold-reddish-haired, blue-eyed, freckled white girl, I spent my earliest years becoming friends with Calvin and James, two little Black boys who lived across the street, and Carol Taylor who lived down the street. Very few memories of early childhood don’t include Calvin, James, and Carol. Hot summer nights playing Red Rover and Mother May I, freeze tag, swing tag, whiffle ball, horse, truth or dare. Games changed as we grew but our friendship remained.

Our village matriarchs Mrs. Kahn, Mrs. Taylor, Big Mama Davis, Ms. Mickles, Mary Lee, and the older folks who hung out on the corners acted as the neighborhood watch, keeping a protective eye as we played — and scolding us as needed.

I watched as Carol and Thessie Ann got their hair pressed and rubbed grease into their ashy skin after swimming lessons. They marveled at my bright red sunburned nose and shoulders and asked what it meant when we had to go in to “say the Rosary.”

I joined my siblings to attend the Catholic school and church across town — where my classmates were wealthy and, except for one or two families from the Philippines, white.

Suddenly, my neighborhood and everything I knew was to be feared and avoided as classmates spoke in whispered towns about “black people” and “the…