True Tales

The history that I know…

“February is Black History Month.” I heard it on the news this morning. I have considered this and it has thus occurred to me I ought to write the history that I know.

I don’t recall ever having seen a black person, at least up close, until I was five or six years old. There were only white children at Marguerita Elementary School where I was in kindergarten and if there were any other colors I did not notice. Our clean and well-groomed middle class neighborhood in Alhambra, California only had people like my family. I don’t recall noticing anyone “different” (such as being another color). I wasn’t really even aware of people colors, but probably would have become so if I was exposed to different ones.

The first time I remember seeing a black person up close was during a sweltering summer in Chicago, probably in1958. My mother, sisters, baby brother and I had taken the train out for the summer to visit Grandma and Grandpa Strohm and Aunt Betty, my mother’s twin sister. One night we all drove out to an amusement park and it was there —right there under the bright colored lights of the Ferris wheel, with people’s feet dangling way up over my head, laughs and screams coming from the circling and swaying seats, carnival music filling the air, everything a blur of color, people and sounds, my hands and face all sticky pink with cotton candy — I saw a little black girl with two little black braids with pretty bows on either side of her head. She was just about my size, and only a few feet away. Our eyes locked on each other and then she smiled at me. I pointed my little finger right back at her and said, “Look Mommy! A Nigger!” Instantly that little girl’s face transformed before my eyes. Her eyes opened wide in a sort of shock, anguish and hurt. I will never, ever, ever forget those eyes. I will never forget the devastating force of my innocent words. Her mother scooted her away, glaring fiercely at my mother and yelling out, “What kind of mother are you?? To raise a child to talk that way to my little girl?” and my mother scooted me away in the other direction, full of embarrassment, scolding me, “Don’t you ever call anyone that word, do you understand me?” Well, I didn’t know any other word. We didn’t have those people at home, and that’s what I’d heard Grandma call them.

That night, back at my grandparents’ apartment, my mom and Grandma were up late arguing. I could hear them through the door. Grandma was screaming at my mom about what had happened and my mom was screaming right back, trying to tell Grandma that the Negroes (that’s what my mom called them) aren’t bad people. And Grandma shrilled back, “They’re stupid! You can’t trust them! They’re lazy! And they stink!” Mom said “No they don’t Mother! I am not going to raise my children to hate.” And Grandma snapped back, “Well, would you want to sleep with a nigger, Mary? Would you!?” That’s when my mom started crying and I don’t remember anything after that.

Grandma always liked me to cuddle up in her bed and sleep with her, and I liked to do this even though I thought she had a bad smell.

To listen to Siri Ved Kaur read this story, click the play button below.