You hit home, hard. The memory of that morning came flooding back and I was back on the school bus. I was eleven that year, in fifth grade. We'd moved and instead of walking to school I took the school bus.
It was a long ride out of the canyon and down the mountain. Every couple miles the bus stopped to pick up kids from the far flung homes. Eventually, we hit city streets that took us to our schools. As you'd expect, I was trying to fit in, looking for a friend, hoping to...
One of the big kids, pointed out the window and yelled, " kikemobile" - and all the kids got up to see, started laughing and pointing at the big shiny car and chanting "kikemobile" over and over again. The bus driver told everyone to sit down, but didn't say a word about the word.
I was frozen solid, paralyzed. I honestly could not move. In my head tattooed numbers hidden beneath long sleeved shirts and sweaters and jackets were flashing through my mind. Suddenly, I understood why Grampa always said, we needed to blend in.
A few weeks later, one of the big kids yelled "pimpmobile" and I froze - again. I froze throughout the chanting and the bus driver's laughing. While I can still feel my ice cold skin and the burning heat inside me, I still can't name it - was it anger, fear, shame, confusion, hurt?
After that, I didn't want friends anymore and I never made one in that school. I went all the way to 6th grade graduation without a single friend. I ate my lunch alone, sat alone at recess and talked to no one. No one knew their class valedictorian, no one clapped when the name was announced. I had blended in so well, no one knew me.
My grandparents were lucky, they could hide their tattooed arms. Their children and grandchildren could hide behind our white skin. But I've known since fifth grade, that you, Mr. Black man, could not hide; for your skin was all over you.
By sheer happenstance, I ended up in a private Catholic college prep high school. In history class, I raised my hand and asked how the German people could have let the holocaust happen. Sister Catherine looked at me, walked over to her bookshelf, took down a book and handed it to me. Can you guess what the title of that book was?
"Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave." Grampa said, it was a good choice, Douglass could answer my question better than anyone.
You write, "Knowing what I know about Black folks’ history in America, it hardly feels appropriate to characterize my little drama as “traumatic” - and I agree - completely. My point is not as obvious though.
After Douglass, I read as many African American authors as I did Jewish ones (Baldwin and Bialik are my favorites). In the cantor's voice, I hear the loss of language stolen from black song - and grieve.
I cannot know, but I believe that teaching all of our children history at its fullest, has a good chance of putting racism to rest. Do you think that is possible?
