The little girl bounces out of her house. Purple popsicle in her hand.

Her dirty knees reveal her busy morning playing outside.

She sits down in the small patch of grass, which is mostly dirt, between her house and the one next door. As she crosses her bare legs, a big purple drop plops on her knee.

She puts the popsicle in her mouth as she looks into the next door neighbor’s driveway, staring.

With the popsicle in her mouth, no one can see her smile. However, her big blue-green eyes are alight with joy and love.

She watches the “big boy” next door shoot baskets in his driveway. Her eyes follow his every move. It doesn’t matter if he notices her or not. She could sit watching him for hours.

As the popsicle melts in her mouth, she sings a little song in her head about the boy.

“I love this boy.

His name is Stanley.

He is playing basketball.

And I am watching . . .”

And so the sing-song melody goes.

He is much older than her. He goes to the big kid’s school.

After a while, he stops dribbling and shooting. He looks straight at the little girl and says, “see ya.”

“See ya later,” she calls back, her heart racing.

She runs back into her house, purple, sticky hands leaving spots on the doorknob as she rushes through the door.

“What have you been doing?” her mom asks, seeing her race into the house.

“Watching Stanley play basketball,” the girl says breathlessly.

“You really like Stanley, don’t you?” asks mom.

The girl pauses and thinks.

“I love him,” she exclaims with a sigh.

“He’s a big, creamy bar of chocolate, and I want to eat him up.”

Racism Didn’t Exist in My Little World

That little girl is me. And this story is my earliest memory of a “black” person. Only I did not know that description then or that the word “black” meant anything other than a color in my crayon box.

This memory came back to me recently as my country and the world are once again thrown into an age-old debate about racism.

I long for moments like the one in this story where a child is unaware of racism or really race at all. All I saw was a beautiful boy playing basketball. In fact, I remember the feeling as I watched him.

I give my parents a lot of credit, as they encouraged us to treat every person equally and to expect fairness. Growing up in the 1960’s, I didn’t even know amid this raw stage in our history what was swirling around my naive, happy life.

The neighborhood we lived in was lower middle class. Accordingly, the houses were small. We had one bathroom. However, it was idyllic for a curious, energetic four-year-old. I ran around the neighborhood, visiting different families, and eating whatever they served.

One of my favorite activities was sampling snacks and dinners at all the houses on our block. Each house had its own special smells, spices, and foods, and I loved them all. When I was older, my mother confirmed that our block was a potpourri of ethnicities and backgrounds.

No One is Born a Racist

In the house on the corner lived a large family with eight or more kids. Maria, the mom, made the most amazing homemade tortillas. One night, I sat down with them for dinner, thinking no one would possibly notice one more child at the table with so many children.

The father, however, looked straight at me and asked, “who are you?”

Being a smartass even then, I answered, “I’m one of your children. Don’t you recognize me?” Going back to that moment, I honestly think my 4-year-old self thought no one would notice.

Laughing, he said, “Of course, our blond, blue eyed child.” With that, dinner proceeded as usual, only with me stuffing my face with as many tortillas and beans that I could get my grubby hands on.

My best friend across the street, Leah, was Jewish. I didn’t really know what that meant at the time other than she received presents for DAYS around Christmas time, when I only received gifts on one day.

Also, I learned later that Leah was adopted. It never occurred to me that she didn’t look like her parents. However, now looking at a photo of us, Leah was a lovely brown color. Hispanic? Native American? Who knows. It doesn’t matter.

To me, she was just Leah. And I loved her.

Experiencing Racism and School Integration

The first time I encountered anything directly “racist” was when my grandmother told us she had visited her “colored” friend down the street. My little sister and I giggled as we tried to figure out what color her friend was.

“Maybe she’s green like a Martian,” my sister laughed.

Later, mom explained that grandma’s friend was black. That just confused me. Why didn’t grandma just say black then? Or why did she have to say a color at all?

Later in middle school, I witnessed racism firsthand.

The neighborhood where I went to school was mostly white and upper middle class, and predominantly Jewish. I only know this last fact because I was in middle school and EVERYONE celebrated bat mitzvahs and bar mitzvahs.

Selfishly, it riled me once again to see such a difference between my confirmation, the Christian version of becoming an adult, and the Jewish passing into adulthood that involved a major party, tons of cash, and presents.

Of course, my Jewish friends liked to remind me of the Hebrew lessons, hours of study and classes, and having to read the Torah in front of an entire congregation. Yeah, but still, those presents!

Anyway, during my 7th grade year, the school district joined the 1970’s movement of school integration. For my school, this meant busing about 100 kids to our neighborhood from downtown, which was mostly lower income and black. 

The idea, my mom explained, was to give less fortunate kids access to schools in wealthier school districts that had better teachers, supplies, classes, etc.

A couple of the bused-in kids I knew from our church, which was also located in the downtown area.

Not Accepting Racist Boundaries

One day, I walked out of the girls’ bathroom to the courtyard on the other side. Immediately, a girl to my right yelled at me: “Margi, get over here.”

Following the voice, I looked up and saw a group of girls huddled together to my right. They were staring straight ahead at another group of girls to my left. My musical theater brain thought of West Side Story, as it looked like a female version of the jets and sharks.

As if on cue, a girl from the left then yelled at me. “No you don’t, Margi, you get over here.”

I stood there shifting my sight from right to left like a tennis match. As you’ve probably guessed, one side comprised mostly black girls. The other group was primarily white. I had friends on both sides.

There was no right answer here, and I started to panic.

Instead of joining either side, I ran back through the bathroom and to the office, grabbing the Principal. I knew my tattle telling would earn me grief, and possibly punches, from both sides. However, I could not stand the thought of having to choose a side or have the girls hurt each other.

Honestly, I did not understand the boundaries those girls drew then, and I don’t understand them now.

Why Can’t We all Get Along?

I do not tell these stories to be righteous. I’m sure I’ve said stupid things and not been sensitive to others. During a recent company meeting, I learned about some phrases of which I never realized were dismissive or biased. As a white woman, I have no idea what it’s like going through life with dark skin.

Rather, I tell these stories because recent events have me thinking back through my life and reliving racism through the eyes of a child.

Frankly, I can’t believe we are still facing the issues of my youth. In my fantasy world, I dreamed we would all be living in harmony by the time I was an adult. I don’t understand why our country cannot break this cycle of racism.

How can one human look at another human and see anything other than another human being?

Clearly, I am still naive. But mostly, I’m just sad and angry that we can’t all just fucking get along.

Trying to Understand the Black Experience

Before I married, I dated a couple of black men. Only then did I have a glimpse firsthand of what non-white people deal with every day of their lives.

For example, one time when my boyfriend and I were invited to a wedding in Boise, I suggested we drive. Immediately, he responded, “No. We will fly into Boise, go to the wedding, and fly back out.”

I did not understand. He explained that driving through Eastern Washington and Idaho would be too dangerous for him, especially with a white woman in the car with him. I remember thinking, “Oh, come on, we don’t live in the South.” However, other black friends validated his fears.

Wherever we went, people of ALL colors stared at us. In restaurants, parks, coffee shops. I grew accustomed to the evil eye directed at me by some black women and the head shakes by white men. Or just the anger directed at us by random people. None of this made sense to me. Why did anyone care who I dated or slept with? What business was it of theirs?

The only time I ever felt normal walking down the sidewalk holding the hand of my black boyfriend was in New York. There, we blended in with the cacophony of sounds, skin colors, and languages. It felt freeing and safe.

Throughout my life, white men have asked me, “Why do you love black men so much?”

In response, I usually sigh and reply, “I love men. Good looking, strong, healthy, funny, smart men. Period. Color has nothing to do with it.”

Believing all People and Colors are Beautiful

Okay, I will admit, there are times I see a black man, and I think exactly as my 4-year-old self did watching Stanley play basketball. I think, “What a beautiful man.” But is it because he’s black? I think it’s just because the man is wicked good looking!

Although, to be honest, it does happen more frequently with black men than other races.

One time at a Mariners game, I had the fortune of sitting in the front row behind the on-deck batter’s circle. Carlos Delgado, with the Toronto Bluejays, entered the circle to warm up with a few swings. His back was to me, and all I could do was stare at his amazingly beautiful body, especially his butt. (Yes, men, we look at your butts. Get over it.)

Without realizing it, my mouth emitted a sound that was something like, “Yummmmmm.”

Delgado immediately turned and looked straight into my eyes, and shocked me as he said, “Thank you. You’re not bad yourself.”

My heart stopped beating for what felt like a full minute. He then proceeded to go up to bat and hit a rocket into the field, securing a double.

How could any woman (or man for that matter) not think Carlos Delgado is a beautiful specimen of a human being?

I am a Mama of all God’s Children

I am a mother of several boys. When I heard that George Floyd called for his mama, my heart broke. That could have been my son.

No one’s baby should die that way, and I wish one of us mamas could have held him in our arms.

I am a mama of all God’s babies. I believe that. You want to see me experience pure joy? Put a baby in my arms.

My wish is that all mothers come together and unite to end this violence against our babies. We should grieve, be angry, and try to protect the life of every mother’s child. Regardless of their age, race or gender.

The next time you see someone different from you, just think about the fact that he or she is somebody’s baby.

Now, I end where I began. With a child’s voice.

Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world
Red, brown, yellow
Black and white
They are precious in His sight
Jesus loves the little children
Of the world