Black Boy

When I was in the 2^nd grade, I can remember a Mrs. Adams arguing on my behalf. She did something for me that I will never forget. She stood up for me. Could you imagine overhearing an argument between teachers in which one says, “I don’t know how to teach them.”?  Mrs. Adams always said that I was different from the others in my class and seemed to show me extra affection. At that age, I didn’t understand it then, but what a difference a year makes?

In 3^rd grade, I was in Heaven! We watched Ghostwriter and The Magic School Bus on Mondays and Wednesdays and on Tuesdays and Thursdays we watched Wishbone and Bill Nye The Science Guy. Learning was so much fun! Life was fun, period. Unknowingly though, I was in for the shock of my life. I had a best friend. He lived close by, rode the same bus and we even had the exact same pair of shoes. We talked a month about his upcoming birthday party and on the day he passed out the invitations, I was overlooked. I immediately asked where my invitation was. He looked at me with the most confused expression I’ve ever seen and replied, “You can’t come. My Dad says you’re black.” I was beginning to realize who I was from other people. That is the absolute worse way to find out.

My journey through the 4^th grade was horrible. I even felt different. In my mind I was an outcast, but I knew well enough never to let my actions show it. I attribute this to being an athlete. When you could beat someone at a game, you always had some sort of confidence and or acceptance. This school year was the most emotionally devastating. I remember being asked to my teacher’s desk along with two other black kids. She said in honor of Black History Month, she’d like to put our baby pictures on the bulletin board. I wish I was making this up.

The truth is that my struggle didn’t stop there. The first day of 7^th grade my teacher told me some of her favorite students have been black without provocation. All these things showed me how different the world is for many people. Whether it was ignorance, prejudice or just simply racism, it helped form my psyche. I’ve forgiven my wrong doers. I will never forget, though. How else will I teach my son or daughter correctly? This is not just a blog...Its reality.