CHANGE

I was exposed to racism when I was five years old.  It’s amazing how you don’t forget the names of certain people… Amy Craigson. In my head, the scene leading up to the impending scourge is blessed with sunlight and laughter, the charm of youthful innocence. Young girls in pleated navy blue uniforms jump rope in scalloped socks and shiny, black mary-janes, baptized by the ornate steeple of the church behind them.

I’m a beautiful little girl. I have shiny, black hair, stylishly cut in a bob. My mother bought me the nicest uniform- 100% wool, I’m told. There’s Amy and Jennifer skipping with the rope. Unabashedly and excitedly I run towards Amy. “Can I play?” I ask.

Children don’t ask questions with the expectation of denial.

“No, you can’t because you’re too black, Ding-Dong!” Amy shouts.

I remember running for what seemed like forever, but what was probably a matter of seconds, I remember finding shelter from the ignominy against a corner of the church, where pillars intersected mainframes. The space was perfect for housing a sobbing Asian kindergartner, and her first experience with denial and discrimination.

No one came to pick me up off of the ground, hold my hand or wipe my tears with kindness and mercy.

I had never paid attention to the way people looked- the shape of their eyes, the color of their skin.  But perhaps that was because I was surrounded by relative uniformity. I was surrounded by a bunch of Twinkies!

The pain of the day subsided somehow. The merciful evanescence of emotions as a child. As the years passed, Amy Craigson would become a friend, and then an acquaintance, and then a nobody to me.

I wish we had been old enough to understand that Ding Dongs and Twinkies may look distinctly different on the outside, but on the inside- they both have the same filling.