excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD (see Aug 31, 2010)
High school - Oh how my heart ached as I read of the child weeping as he was snatched from his mother and put on the auction block! What madness is this? I could feel his terror and grief. Who would soothe his bruised face, kiss his tears away and sing him to sleep? History classes taught me the brutality of man. My history teacher liked my notebook of poetry and the drawings of the sad, little dark boy with the tear on his cheeek. She did not have many answers to my questions though.
The rest of the class seemed to focus on the slogan "the South shall rise again" and talked of getting even with the Yankees who had messed up their way of life. The confederate flag was held up with pride in some meetings. I was relieved to study that "we" had lost the civil war. I began to hate my "southernness".
One day when we drove from our modern brick school with the fancy gym and industrial arts building, past the white frame one room school house of the Negro community I stared in disbelief at the smallness of the building, yet I knew it held all the grades. I wondered if the school was crowded, did they have fun? Did we use the same books? Did they ride a bus to school? Or did they all live close enough to walk from the little houses crowded behind the school on the unpaved road?
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