Little Negro Child

Latoya Rhodes

111 So. 1400 W. APT 45

Cedar City, UT 84720

801-556-4112

Toya_latoya@yahoo.com

LITTLE NEGRO CHILD

Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood when you are of a different race can be interesting; at least it has been for me. I never really understood who, or what I was when I was that little child of five years old. When you are of a different culture, living within another culture, someone might get confused about their outer appearance. For example take a white child and place them in Compton, CA. The neighborhood is filled with Black American’s, and not a white person is in sight. The young child may think that they are black. They might go around saying, “Hey what up dog.” Or, “Fo’ shizzle my nizzle.” They might get beat up in the process, but this child truly believes that they are of the African descendent, until one day their parents tell this confused, young child that they are not of black ethnicity. Well, I’ll never forget the time when this exact thing happened to me. While walking home from school my eyes were opened and I could see the light. I was not white. But now that I am twenty-two I understand that I a different and that I am a Black American. But I’ll never forget that little Negro child that still shines within my skin.

It is funny when I think about growing up in Kaysville, Utah because I was the dark spot on a white piece of paper. I could be spotted within a classroom so easily. Now days I laugh when I tell this story, but at the time it was a scary beginning of coming to an understanding of who I truly was, who my culture was, and my ancestors. The skin upon my bones became a barrier between reality, and fiction. When I was in Kindergarten I became my surroundings. When I was walking home from school the sun was shining upon my beautiful long blonde hair. When the sun hit my Rupunzel like hair it would glow so bright. The wind would push it back while I waved my head back and forth. My hair was amazing. My eyes were as blue as the ocean, and they sparkled. My skin was as pale as Snow White. I was a beautiful Disney princess like Aurora, Ariel, and Belle. I lived in the fairytale land of fiction; however, one day my fiction was ripped from the pages of my story, and I joined the land of reality. It all happened when I looked in a mirror, and I don’t mean just took a glance, I mean I truly looked in the mirror, and stared back at the little girl. She looked nothing like me. She had black as night hair that was pulled half way back, and the other half was draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were dark ebony brown, and her skin resembled the soils of the earth. She scared me. Not knowing that she was me. I was pale, blonde, and blue. At the same time when I would move my head back and forth to feel my flowing blonde hair sway, the mysterious girl’s hair would sway. When I would blink my ocean blue eyes, her ebony brown eyes would reflect the same thing. When I would raise my pale arm into the air, her dirty hand would do the same thing. It was getting annoying, and my patience was growing thin. What was going on? Why was she trying to make a mockery of me? Did she want to hurt my feelings? I moved my head toward the girl. Slowly, I went closer and closer to her until I placed my palm upon the mirror, and she did the same. Her palm was touching my palm, until I realized that we were the same. Our palms were the same. We were the same? WE WERE THE SAME!!! What?! I just stood there, looking at me. I, for the first time saw my true self. She was me. I was her. We were one. I screamed, and cried to my mother.

“What is this?” I asked her while trying to peel off my skin. “What is this mom? I don’t understand.” I began to pout, and tear up. I didn’t understand what was going on.

“Oh, don’t cry honey.” She said, while holding me tightly within her arms. She sat me down and began to explain to me that I wasn’t white.

“You are a black.” she said. It was as simple as that. I am black. I am black? What does that even mean? I just stared at her with a confused expression that masked my face.

“But mom, your skin isn’t as dark as mine.” I said. My mom is both black and white. She has a lighter color of skin than me because her mother is completely white, and her father is black. That was when she began to go into further details about my family, and about what happened to my ancestors. I don’t know if I came to a full understanding, but at that time just the comfort from my mother was all that I needed at that time. But I won’t lie, I started to notice things that I neglected before. I began to notice that the other children in my class or at recess would just look at me with the same expression that I gave to my mother. Their flaming gaze would burn my skin. People’s whispers would pierce my wondering mind. Why didn’t they want to tell me the secrets? I should have known that those secrets were about me. I was also a child that was shy. I didn’t like contention, and like every child, I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be the cool person that everyone wanted to get to know. It was not that way. I was called a lot of different racist names that were hard to bare. I began to be blamed for things that I didn’t do. I became a target of jokes, and tormented for just being me. I became more of an out cast on the paper than ever before. People wanted me to be erased. I didn’t have a lot of friends, and it seemed like the friends that I did have turned their backs on me. I was a lone and pushed out. I was just lucky to have great sisters that were my friends. But I remember one friend in particular. She was my neighborhood friend, and her name was Shanna. She was my next door neighbor who came from a family that practiced the Mormon religion. She was seen throughout the neighborhood as the pure, clean, loving child that could do no wrong. Well, I knew that she was apart of Satan’s army. Shanna was short, and had a full head of bright white blonde hair. Sometimes she would call me mean things, and say that I was going to burn in hell because I was different, but none the less she was my best friend. She was all I had. One day that friendship turned into hatred. It happened within a blink of an eye. We were both in third grade, and Shanna and I were talking about how her parents had bought her brand new eyes glasses that were very expensive. She wore them with pride, and confidence. She was going to be the spark of everyone’s eye in class the next day.

“Do you like them? she asked me.

“Of course I do. They are really nice.” I said. “I wish I think I might need glasses.”

“Why would you need glasses?” she wondered.

“Well, I have problems seeing the board. It looks all blurry and stuff. When I get close though, I can see everything perfectly.

“Why don’t your parents buy you some glasses then?”

“We don’t have the money to buy them.”

“Oh, well that’s too bad.” she said with a smart ass smile on her face. She couldn’t stand when she didn’t have the attention from everybody, especially if it was me. But something happened to her precious new glasses. She broke them within a couple of days. Caput! They no longer existed. They were gone for good. I don’t know how she did it, but she ended up blaming me for her mistake. Those stupid glasses made us mortal enemies like Batman and the Joker. Of course I was Batman, the good guy who shined like the hero should at the end of the story. Let’s just say justice was prevailed. At school she emerged from the dark halls and called me out.

“Hey bitch, you broke my glasses,” she yelled. I turned around to look at her, and I was so confused, and at the same time scared because she just called me the “B” word. That was a word that we were not supposed to say. Her purity, cleanliness, and wholesomeness began to melt away, and she was seen for who she truly was. She proceeded to yell at me and call me other names like nigger, and black bitch over and over again. They were like the Joke was coming at me with his razor-sharp playing card, and I was trying to shield back my tears with my Batman like gadgets. Her little sister was with her, and she came at me to hit me. But luckily the principle of the school was coming up the hall and saw what was going on.

“What are you doing?” He asked us. We all were too afraid to reply to him, so he pointed at my friend and I. He took a hold of our shoulders and took us into a privet room to speck to us.

“What was going on out there?” He asked us.

“Well, Latoya broke my glasses that my parents just bought me,” she said while putting on an act for the principle. I was petrified that I was going to get into trouble for something that I didn’t do.

“No I didn’t break her glasses,” I testified to the principle. “I would never do that. Well, she called me the “b” word, and other things.” I tried to convince him that I had nothing to do with her glasses. I knew if I didn’t get myself out of this situation, I would get into trouble for a crime that I didn’t commit. I felt like I was being forced into an electric chair to await my death while I screamed out I’M INNOCENT.

“She called you the “b” word?” He asked with a confused look on his face. I don’t think that he understood what I meant. “Oh, she called you a bitch?”

“YES,” I blurted out, relieved that he knew what I was talking about. “I don’t know what I did to make her angry with me, but I didn’t break her glasses.” He looked at me, and then turned his attention onto my friend.

“Is this true?” He questioned her. At this time her act began to melt from her face. Shame and embarrassment replaced her lies.

“Yes.” She replied back finally telling the truth. “She didn’t break my glasses. I did.” I was relieved. I still didn’t understand why she blamed me for something she did herself. After the talk with the principle, he made her go to his office and call her parent to tell them the truth; however, the rumble with my friend didn’t end with the principle. My older sister and I were exiting the school bus so that we could walk home, and my friend was standing on the side walk waiting for me to come out.

“You stupid nigger, you broke my glasses,” she began to yell again. At this time she began to hit me with her backpack. I tried to block her away from me, but nothing could protect me from her. My older sister was standing with me trying to protect me from this wicked girl. I finally reached the peck of anger and hit her away from me, and just like that she fell to the ground crying for her mother. Her brother was just arriving to pick her up from the bus stop when he saw me hit her. He came flying faster than a speeding bullet to beat the crap out of me. So my older sister and I ran home as fast as lightening. We slammed the door, and made sure to lock it. We were safe. My older sister just looked at me with this pleased look.

“Way to go sis.” she said proudly.

“Thanks.”

Justice was prevailed. Later on I found out that her parents grounder her, and she was forced to apology for what she did to me. Well, we don’t even talk to each other anymore because after that we were no longer friends. Throughout the neighborhood, while growing up my sisters and I was blamed for a number of things. Was it because we were of a different color? Was it because we were easy targets? I don’t know for sure. But what I do know is that it changed my whole prospective on things in my own life. The little negro girl was all grown up now. Her eyes were no longer blinded by ignorance, and justification for what has happened to her. Still to this day she comes across things, and people that resemble Shanna. It was at the end of a long day of school when I came across something that sparked the fire that was inside me. Placed on a wall was an image that was derogatory toward black people. The word that was chosen to bring down a whole culture was nigger. The word was written with white chalk for all to see. It was big, and frightening. It is a day never to be forgotten. My friends that were next to me were outraged too. They both are white females, and they were offended at such a painful image.

“Wow.” one of them said. “Look how far we have gotten. Nowhere.” I will never forget how much pain I felt inside, and how much pain they felt as well. I came to a realization that I was one with them too. It was like that day when I found out that I was of a different race. It was a race less moment for me. I was them, and they were me. We all were one fighting toward a better tomorrow. I guess that little negro girl is still learning.