Reflections of a Daughter of a Patriot
As I tell my story, I hope it will open the eyes of others whose eyes may still be half closed.
I was born into the late sixties and early seventies. I’m white born of an Irish/Scottish mom and a German dad…many generations here in America. Except for my grandma, she came over from Ireland in the early nineteen hundreds. But she always said she was an American and changed her birthday to July 4.
As I entered elementary school, I was bused into an inner city school as were all my black friends. My best friend, Curtis, lived across the street in Ewing, NJ. We would wait on his porch for the bus, watch the maple trees drop their little helicopters and jump in the leaves.
Shortly after starting school, my white friend Kimmy came over to play and would leave whenever Curtis would run over. One day, I asked her why.
She said, “Because he’s black. My mom’s boyfriend says I can’t play with him. Doesn’t that mean something?” After she left, I ran inside to ask my father why.
He sighed and ran a hand along his brow. “Some people have issues with those who don’t look like them.”
“But he’s okay. He’s not hurt or anything or sick.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Curtis.”
