Ask any Black individual, and they can often recount the first time they faced a racial slur. For me, that moment occurred when I was just 7 years old. I was at my friend Sarah’s house, a cheerful little girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. We played together frequently, but I realized something was off— I had never been invited inside her home, nor had she visited mine. We simply enjoyed our time in the backyards of our respective trailers.
One sunny afternoon, while we were engaged in our typical play, my mom came to let me know she needed to run an errand. She told me to continue playing with Sarah while she was gone. We had a blast dressing dolls and creating imaginative scenarios, until nature called. I needed to use the bathroom, but my own house was locked. So, I asked Sarah if I could use her restroom. She said she would ask her mom and be right back.
When Sarah returned, I noticed she was holding a roll of toilet paper. Her voice trembled as she relayed her mother’s words: “My mom said you can’t use our bathroom because we don’t allow niggers in our house. You can go outside.”
At that moment, confusion washed over me. I had never encountered racism before, and I was both embarrassed and hurt. Despite the overwhelming emotions, I didn’t cry. I had no choice; desperate to relieve myself, I took the toilet paper and found a bush near their house.
As I squatted there, I struggled to process the shock of what had just transpired. I was just a child, yet I understood the weight of the situation. After finishing, I returned the toilet paper to Sarah and walked home, feeling deflated. I sat on the stairs of our trailer, anxiously waiting for my mom. When she finally returned, I recounted the incident. Her expression said it all; rage simmered beneath her calm exterior. It was the 1970s, a time not long after the Civil Rights Movement. I don’t know if my mom ever confronted Sarah’s family, but I never played with her again.
The memory of that day is etched in my mind, and it still brings a wave of sorrow. That was the moment I lost my innocence. It was the day I learned what it meant to have Black skin in a world that viewed it as a threat. From that day forward, I became aware of the fight I would have to engage in.
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In summary, my first encounter with racism was a painful awakening to the realities of societal prejudice. It marked a significant turning point, shaping my understanding of identity and the challenges that come with it.