I’ve been working on a memoir of sorts for sometime now and yet, try as I may, it seems like I’ll never really finish it. So I decided to extract bits and pieces of it to share. I was trying to remember when I first became aware of differences in races. There were a couple of instances that stand out for me. But I’ll just share one now. The elementary school I went to was fairly mixed. When I look at my class pictures from then, we had a mixture of races – black, white, Asian, Hispanic. I do remember that early in September there were a lot of Jewish holidays and during those days the classroom was pretty empty. I enjoyed those days because it meant I’d get extra attention. It never really mattered to me what race you were, if you were nice to me, I coveted a relationship with you and if you were mean – I stayed away from you. I actually think there were a few times early on that I recognized that being black might be a problem, but being the optimist I am, I tried to pass it off as something much less nefarious. However, awareness came hard and heavy when I was five years old. I grew up at the time that it was customary to get your tonsils taken out at five years old. Not that I was sick a lot or anything like that but the consensus in the health community was that tonsils needed to be extracted to prevent recurring infections. According to an article I read “The driving force was the focal theory of infection, which assumed that circumscribed and confined infections could lead to systemic disease in any part of the body. Tonsils were considered ‘portals of infection’” (The Rise and Decline of Tonsillectomy in Twentieth-Century America on JSTOR). So, the day came that my mother got me all dressed up and we went to the Brooklyn Eye and Ear Hospital where the extraction was to take place. It would require an overnight stay. After getting settled, my mother left me and said she’d be back in the morning. She promised to bring my favorite dress for me to wear home. Although I was a little nervous, I was delighted to see that there was a giant playhouse in the waiting area and other children who also were having their tonsils extracted. I was excited to play with the other children. The only problem was that I was the only black child and a few of the children persuaded all of the other children not to play with me. Whenever I tried to play with someone, they would move away from me so I didn’t have anyone to play with. Not only that, the nurse took everyone else before she took me. I fought hard not to cry. I felt so isolated – like I didn’t belong. I just wanted my mother to come back and get me. I was the last one to be called. As I sat inside the playhouse all alone, I began to wonder if I would be called at all. We got there early in the morning and by this time it was clearly the afternoon. I was both hungry and frightened. Had they just forgotten about me? I didn’t know what to do. Should I go and look for someone or just wait. Maybe it was that I was truly invisible. I’ll never forget the disdain that the other children showed towards me. They called me names. The bullies told everyone not to touch me as if I had some kind of disease. I didn’t understand because my mother dressed me to perfection and my hair was perfectly combed with starched ribbons to match my outfit. I even got to wear my Sunday shoes – pretty black patent leather and white lace socks. These shoes were a far cry from the usual “boy looking” shoes I was required to wear to correct my flat feet. Finally, it was my turn. Once they put the ether mask over my face, it was only a matter of seconds and I was out. The next I remember, I woke up in a long, dark room with lots of beds. I was put on the end – not amongst the other children. I remember being cold and wanting so much to suck my finger and have my favorite pink blanket with the nice silky edge to comfort me. My throat was hurting so badly. Suddenly the lights went on and they gave us all ice-cold water to drink. I couldn’t manage to get mine down. They fussed at me and said that the lights would not be turned off until I finished my water. That’s when I started crying. I had been on the verge of tears since the day before and was able to hold them back but I just couldn’t stand it anymore and the tears started flowing. I couldn’t understand why no one would be nice to me – not the children and not even the adults! I managed to get the water down with the threat that I would have to stay another night, which meant that my mother wouldn’t come for me in the morning as originally planned, if I didn’t cooperate. I remember being scared and lonely in the big dark room. I wanted my sister. We always had each other no matter what. I remained awake most of the night, cold, just waiting, fighting back the tears, staring out of the window at the street lights, anxiously looking, almost willing the sun to come up. Somehow, I must have drifted off to sleep. I awoke to bright sunshine. Finally it was time to go home. (“Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning! – Psalms 30:5b). True to her word, my mother arrived with my favorite dress. At home, my father doted over me. He was always the one to show compassion towards us. He made me soft boiled eggs and brought me ice cream to eat (even though I really didn’t want anything to eat). I sure was happy to be home, in my own bed, with people who loved and cared about me. That was a very traumatic experience. It was that experience that made me a lot more guarded and a lot more aware of people’s preconceived notions about me just because of what I look like. I had to always fight feelings of inferiority of thinking somehow that I was “less than”. I was the afterthought – the alternative. It’s like being the understudy and never the star. I’ve since learned (although it took many years), that my worth is not measured in comparison to others, nor is measured by other people, nor the places I’ve been nor things I have or don’t have. In God’s eyes I am much more valuable than even silver and gold – I’m PRICELESS!!!!
6 Responses
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My comment:
There is no excuse to mistreat a child.
This story broke my heart. How can adults be mean to children…..
I so enjoyed that.
Yes you definitely are PRICELESS, sad but enjoyable story (nicely written).
What a beautiful story, and so well told. It brings back memories of my junior high years.
That is so sad. Unfortunately, children of color have this sad memory. Definitely made you stronger.