Little White Girl

Based on events from my childhood growing up in South Carolina.

We lived in the suburbs of Charleston when I was a girl. 

It was hot, so we ran from house to house, 
burning the bottoms of our feet, 
collapsing into the cool of our air conditioned houses, 
took swimming lessons in our own blue pools. 

When the hurricanes came,

we were safe inside our brick fortresses. 
Still, we held our breath as the silent eye passed over 
I knew it was watching, testing us. 

My best friend in school was not welcome in my neighborhood. 
The daddies thought her skin would run off into the water 
and it would never come clean.
I invited all the girls I knew to my birthday party, 
but she was the only one allowed to come. 

We picked her up, and I knew for the first time 
as we pulled up to her door 
that we were from different worlds.
I never wanted her to see my house, 
could not fathom betraying her with that truth, 
but there was no turning back. 
We lay there silent that night, 
both of us knowing. 

My mama threw parties. That’s what she did, 

so I learned to smile and curtsy, 
though I wanted to hide in a book in my walk in closet. 
When they would go on vacation, mammy would come. 
We would hide the Jamaican woman 
that covered our toaster, 
but I knew somehow, that single act, did not help any of us forget. 
Forget that my grandfathers owned hers, not too far from here. 

When I was alone with mammy 
we didn't talk at all, which was uncomfortable at first, 
talking being a social virtue and all.
Before long though, I got used to the rhythm of her silence. 

One day she took me to her house. 
I walked into her black and white world 
(funny how I remember it that way). 
I walked through the dirt that was her yard, 
into her wooden house, not much more than a slave shack, 
I see now. 

It was dark in there, but sacred. 
She showed me lace she had made, 
a medal that her husband wore, 
a broach her mama used. 
I felt like looking in her top drawer was looking into a vault, 
so precious were those things. 
I went home again, so ashamed.
How dare I live here in this house, so filled with plastic things, 
things I don’t care about. 

She drew my bath for me that night, 
an inch of water 
and asked me if it was enough. 
Yes maim, I said. 

She never touched me. 
I followed the dark wrinkles of her hands, 
wishing she would open them, 
hold my face like she would 
the little boy from the photograph by her bed, 
knowing she could not. 

Freezing, wanting more water 

to cover my naked skin, 
wanting to get clean, 

I sat there 
hoping, 
praying, 
please God, 
don't let her see

me tremble.

Reviews

[J.P. Bristow]

The scary thing is when I went to visit my brother who went to school in west virginia I was surprized that this still lives-thrives-dwells. Segregation is a part of peoples everyday lives......I remember talking about where I lived to a school mate of his and he looked at me wide eyed my neighbors are Cuban, Jewish, Chinese and all are upper middle class and we have barbeques together- kids play together- adults build fences-pkay soccer or baseball. crazy world. This peice was wonderful. It spoke to me. You really tapped into a genre here that is sometimes talked about too politically correct or too rough/harsh. This was penned with really good skill.....into my favorites.

[Laura E. Aranda]

This was amazing! I felt like someone was recalling this story to me from their way far far past and it intrigues me...I like it alot!!!

[Barry S. Maltese]

Never be ashamed of what you have - unless you refuse to share it. I am not rich, but have been able to provide for my family. I spend a great deal of time working through Community Groups, and my church, to help my community. Maybe God gave you more, and a conscience, so you can help others.
Great write, my friend. You do a good job at comparing the stark contrast in life. Sometimes it is just not fair - so we must make it fair.

[Crimson Shadow]

This is such a touching tribute - It breaks my heart that a child, so loving and innocent, was forced to feel the restraints of prejudice. You paint such a wonderful picture of this relationship...how you wanted her love and needed it, but there was that wall put up because her skin was too dark - they thought. Wonderful writing, I really felt it.

[Emily B]

Lessons learned aren't always small, like saying abc's. These same lessons have been learned over and over again in all societies, all over the world. There has always been an "other." I've read many accounts of children in the mid-nineteenth century who said in their own Victorian way the same thoughts you've expressed here. It is a wonderful poem.

[Rie Sheridan Rose]

Such a strong, strong piece. I am blown away by the power of this. The sadness of a child having to realize such differences even exist. Just brilliant in every way.

[M. Andre Vancrown]

Wow. Where did this come from? A wonderful piece, and a strong departure from other things I've read from you. It has a direct feel, no fat to trim, and no suggestions from me.

I'm taking this one with me.

Well done, Kris.

Michael

[Conspiration Libre D'es..]

The imagery this created for me was wonderful. Love your descriptions and the views from a child were excellent especially the last line 'don't let her see me tremble'. Wow! that is pretty affecting. Great writing and I wonder why more haven't shared in the experience!

[Cherish Blackwell]

I loved this piece. You have a way with words, and even a way with memories. Not everyone can see things so clearly -- especially with the eyes of a child. Thank you for sharing :)

[Bubo]

This is a great in depth piece of a way of life..........growing up with slavery, and segregation ...........but you paint such an innocent picture from the childs point of view, learning these were people with depth and emotion.

I went home again, so ashamed
how dare I live here in this house so filled with plastic things,
things I don�t care about

And the need for love...............from the child.

I followed the dark wrinkles of her hands
wishing she would open them
hold my face like she would
the little boy from the photograph by her bed
knowing she could not

You weaved a very powerful tale which i admire you for.Well done.