For Black History Month this year, I’m going to tell some little-known stories of prejudice in America. They are little known, because they’re stories from my life. In some cases, there are only two people on the planet who know these stories — me, and the black person who experienced my racism.
To begin, I’ll tell this story from the fourth grade. There are at least three people who know this story, as you’ll see in a moment.
When I was in the fourth grade, I committed a horrible act of racial prejudice.
A girl in my class secretly slipped me a note, folded up tight and small. We had been friends all year, and we often talked and played together. I desperately wanted to know what the note said, but I slipped it into my pocket until I could read it privately. At lunch hour, outside on the playground, I opened it. It was a love note. Even though you can’t read it, you know what it said — all childhood love notes are pretty much the same, with simple words and complex feelings.
That’s when I did one of the stupidest, cruelest things I have ever done in my life, without even thinking about it. I walked over to a buddy of mine — a boy as white as me — and showed him the note. We both laughed out loud at what we perceived to be an absurdly funny situation. You see, she was a black girl, and it was 1964. I wish I could…