no, they like to be called black!

When I was 13 I met this black girl around my age. We played in the pool and talked about how short my hair was; she was nice and told me that I didn't look like a boy and that anyone who says so should be ignored. I told her "I like you, wanna be friends?" and she answered "I'd like that, come by next time you're in town and we can play". Later that night I thought about telling my father that I met a new friend. I may have told him about her, I don't remember, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway because he was a pothead and had no time to listen.

A month later I was back in town and scared shitless to go knock on her door. I didn't know why I'd be so scared, all I knew was she was the only friend I had in that sorry town. My knees wobbled when I walked, and the closer I got to her door the more my heart pounded. By the time I reached out my little balled up hand and knocked on her door I'd already figured out what her being black would mean in relation to me being me. 5 minutes later and a few more light taps and I still stood at her door, trying to hold back my stupid tears. I swallowd my heart back down my throat all the way back to my fathers house. I never dared to go back and knock ever again, and I never saw my little friend ever again, and I never spoke too directly about any of it until one day I couldn't hold it in anymore so I asked my mom if black people didn't like white people. She told me black people don't like being called black, "They like being called Negroes these days". I said

"No they don't, mom ... they like being called black"

"No ... dear. Today, we call black people negroes, or negroid; they do not like being called black anymore"

"Where did you get that, mom? they like being called black!"

"Well, these days everything has to be said so right and if you don't say things just right then you can really get in trouble with people; I think they're actually calling themselves afro american these days"

I wanted to cry and scream and just blurt out how hurt I was that I didn't see my friend that day and ask my mom straight up why she thought my friend wouldn't come to the door, and I wanted to talk to my mom about why white people are white and why black people are black and why this is such a problem and really just find out if this might only have had something to do with my haircut making me look like a little boy, but instead all I heard was nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger; us them, those niggers.

After that, I dropped it and decided that not talking about anything always worked so I'd keep not talking about anything, especially negroes or niggers.

So then my life just went on same as it did for any other white kid in my part of town. I had mostly white friends; well except for Keith and Carol, a brother and sister. I think Keith was pretty cool but I couldn't tell because every time I wanted to find out, all I heard was my mom. I never talked about negreos with either of them, as much as I really ached and longed to finally get it out. One day I felt like I really wanted to cry on Carol's mother's shoulder, but instead I just came across like a timid stone. Carol's mother liked me and knew something was deeply troubling me, I could tell, and I liked her and I needed her desperately. I liked Carol and Keith too, but every time I was around the family all I heard was negroe; they like to be called negroes. Niggers.

About a year ago I wandered into a hair salon. Before I could push my wildly beating heart back down my throat I noticed that everyone in the shoppe was black. They were staring back at me through the reflection of fear in my own eyes, and before I could open my mouth, one of the younger women asked me what I was doing there and before I could choke out an answer another young woman informed me, very formally, that she didn't think this was the salon I was looking for and suggested another salon might better serve my needs.

Negroes. Nigger. No, they like to be called black!

A few months after that incident I was shopping over at the Trader Joes and I wanted to go and buy a cup of coffee at the coffee shop a few doors down from that salon. I don't know what it was that day, it could have been that my big hat and the magnitude of my even bigger curly long hair had blinded me, preventing me from seeing straight, because when I next looked up, I noticed the sign posted above their shoppe had morphed:

"INTERNATIONAL HATE GALLERY!"

It took me a minute to calm down and I think I even may have stopped dead in my tracks to catch my breath, but as soon as I could think straight again I looked back and up the sign had just as quickly morphed back into "INTERNATIONAL HAIR GALLERY".

Years would pass before I finally understood that my little friend couldn't come to the door because she wasn't at home that day.

Oct 18, 2008, er I mean Nov 2008... help