Black History Month is…

typing this in the den on the computer while my mother and friends sit on the couch in the living room enraptured by a documentary on PBS about desegregation.  It’s overhearing and attentively listening to their storytelling of their own experiences and childhood in a Jim Crow America.  The threat of a second civil war.  It is me thinking of mine—their differences and similarities… knowing that though only twenty-eight, my own school system desegragated when I was in fourth grade.  I think of the crazy ideals white children had of us and what they’d been told.  I think of their fear that we’d be violent towards them and us being afraid of mistreatment.  I think of how we  tentatively befriended each other.  I think of those I proudly call friend to this day and others I fondly remember, that they aren’t my white friends but just friends…

 

I hope that my younger brother will only have differences and few similarities.  Perhaps, this is what my mother, her friends, my aunts, uncles, and nameless others meant for us as well.

That is all for today, goodnight ya’ll.

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