The world isn’t a perfect place. When I was a kid I was naive and had no idea how cruel the world could be. Here’s the story of how my entire world was turned upside down.

 

It was a damp, rainy day in the city. I sat on the frigid bench in the park with my family, and they chattered away, but their words didn’t reach me as I took a gander at the water fountains stationed nearby. One was labeled white, and the other colored. There, taking a sip from the colored fountain, was a little girl with dark skin who looked to be around my age. The rain that was pounding down all around us had dampened her dark, wavy hair. She was dressed in tattered, torn clothes. Seeing this, I glanced down at my own damp, cotton dress. I contemplated for what felt like an hour, but in reality, it was just a few minutes.

“Mother, Father, why is everything always separated? Wouldn’t it be more efficient to just have one fountain for everyone,” I commented with trepidation.

Both of my parents suddenly stiffened up, and their gazes hardened like stone. “That’s just the way things are, and the way they ought to be, kiddo,” Father replied, trying to brush off the topic. “I think it’s about time we head home,” he continued with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Okay…” I mumbled after a long moment of hesitation. But even when we started to walk away, I couldn’t help but look back.

The next day, I was heading home after a grueling day of school. I looked up at the dull sky and the clouds that seemed to be hanging limply. While I skipped along the cracked, gray, sidewalk, I noticed that same girl standing near the fountain. “Hey!” I called out as I fervently waved my arm in the air, trying to get her attention. She turned around slowly, her eyebrows furrowed as she gestured to herself. I nodded and slowly started to approach the girl, my black shoes clicking against the rough pavement. “Hi, I’m Anne. I saw you standing around here the other day, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to you,” I said confidently, fiddling around with my blonde wavy hair.

“Really?” she replied with genuine surprise in her light brown eyes as if she couldn’t comprehend that I actually wanted to talk to her.

“Of course, why else would I be here, goofy!” I exclaimed in a joking fashion. “Anyways, what's your name? I already told you mine,” I continued confidently.

“Oh umm, my name’s Margaret,” she said shyly, directing her gaze to her feet.

“Nice to meet you, Margaret, that's a swell name. So, where are you from?” I inquired, leaning forward in an attempt to break the awkward silence that was starting to form like a layer of fog.

“I used to live in Virginia, but recently my family and I moved here in an attempt to get away from the harsher Jim Crow laws back in the South,” she replied, fear and hesitance lining her every word.

“Huh, so that explains why I’ve never seen you before,” I replied in realization. “Also, what do you mean by ‘harsher Jim Crow laws,’ aren’t they all the same?” I continued, tilting my head as I started thinking back on the conversation I had with my parents only the day before.

“Well, things might be separate, but things are nowhere near equal,” she mumbled, and she looked at me with eyes that had seen far more than any child should have. But, before I could say anything, she kept talking. “Don’t even get me started on the fact that my father works labor-intensive jobs every day just to keep my family from starving, but if a white person were to do those jobs they’d probably make twice as much money! It’s completely bunk if you ask me!” she practically shouted, and her arms were crossed in rage. But her anger quickly died out like a candle that had been extinguished as she deflated. “I-I just don’t get it. Why is e-everything like this,” Margaret whimpered, her voice hitching.

“I had no idea,” I confessed in shock as I wracked my brain trying to find something to say to comfort Margaret. I turned to look at the setting sun, and I started to process the world-shattering information Margaret had just divulged. Wait, setting sun? I contemplated for a moment. Then, like a lightbulb going off in my brain, I suddenly realized, Oh no! I was supposed to be home ages ago! “Sorry, but I have to leave now. Maybe we can talk later,” I told her hopefully. The guilt felt palpable in my stomach as I walked away. At least I can talk to her tomorrow.

As I approached the brown and white house, I trodden up the stairs quiet as a mouse and slowly tapped my knuckles against the light brown door. I braced myself for the stern lecture that I would surely be getting for coming home so late. Then, through the small window, I saw someone’s silhouette shifting. They swiftly made their way towards the door and slammed open the door so quickly that I flinched.

“Anne, there you are!” Father shouted, relief filling his posture. He then proceeded to kneel down and place his bulky hands on my shoulders and escort me into the cozy house. “Where on Earth were you, and what were you doing!” As I opened my mouth to respond, my words caught in my throat. I remembered that day at the park. If that was his reaction to just mentioning them, then what would he do if he found out I was talking to a black girl, I thought, contemplating. In the end, I settled for a half-truth as I steeled myself, looked my father in the eyes, and replied, “I just made a new friend and lost track of time talking to her. I’m incredibly sorry for not letting you know.” 

Father let go of me and stood up as he said, “Well, I guess if you made a new friend I can make an exception just once. But next time make sure to give your mother and I a warning ahead of time.”

“...Okay,” I replied, surprised that I wouldn’t have to endure one of his mind-numbingly boring hour-long lectures. This action seemed incredibly out of character for him, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “In that case, I might come home late tomorrow if I run into my friend,” I called out quickly, dashing up the curvy stairs before my father could change his mind, sliding my hand along the shiny, wooden railing. I quickly shoved the door to my room open and flopped into bed like a fish. I sat there, cocooned in my blanket, staring at the ceiling, the adrenaline from earlier quickly fading as I tried to wrap my head around everything that had happened. The Jim Crow laws had been a part of my life ever since I was an infant. I had never doubted them before, no one in my family did! So why did that suddenly change?

“Uugh,” I groaned, turning over and slamming my face into the warm and feathery pillow. But as I tried to sort out my thoughts, darkness quickly overtook me, and I fell into a dreamless slumber.

The sunrise quickly came, and I flung myself out of bed; I practically threw my plush blanket off of my body and scurried downstairs as fast as my legs would take me. Then, I looked around, and I realized that no one else was awake yet. The sun had just begun to rise, and the house was illuminated with light. In the center of the room sat a table; the simple white tablecloth contrasted harshly with the extravagant centerpiece. I quickly situated myself at the mahogany table, excited for the day to come. I had spent the previous night carefully devising what to say to Margaret. But then, I spotted today’s newspaper out of the corner of my eye. I felt my stomach sink and my jaw drop, as right there, printed in bold letters next to a photo of Margaret read: Black Girl Lynched at Park.

 “No, no, no, no! This can’t be real,” I exclaimed, my voice progressively getting louder, my thin hands clutching the newspaper and rereading it over and over. It felt like I was drowning in despair, the guilt eating at me from every corner of my mind. “This has to be fake!” Then I was snapped out of my trance when I heard the creaking of the wooden floorboards as my mother and father descended down the steps.

“What is it, sweetie? Why are you crying,” my mother spoke, concern lining her every word. I quickly brought my trembling hands to my face and was surprised to feel wet tears streaking down my face, dripping like wet ink. I tried to hold myself together, but with each passing second, it became harder to ignore the emotions building in my mind. But then, as my mother brought her hands to my shoulders, the mental dam that had been holding back all my emotions burst.

“S-she died,” I uttered, my voice trembling. “My friend died, look!” I quickly shoved the newspaper that had delivered such horrible news to my parents. Surely they would understand why I was so upset, right? As they finished reading, I tilted my head up to look them in the eyes. But instead of seeing faces full of empathy and sadness, I saw that same odd expression that bordered on disgust from that day at the park on their faces.

“Look, I get that you’re sad, but-” Mother acknowledged, trailing off at the end of her sentence before my father, his voice robotic and monotone, interrupted.

“She was just a black person. In fact, you shouldn’t have even been talking to her in the first place. If you’re that desperate for friends I’m sure we could introduce you to some much more respectable people.”

“What?” I said, my shocked face contorting into one filled with rage. “You can’t be serious. You genuinely think that her life meant nothing. You couldn’t even pretend to care, you boneheads!”

“Well, black people get lynched every day, and it’s not like they’re important for anything other than labor work,” Mother explained in a sickly sweet tone that made me feel like vomiting.

“She was a person!” I cried at the top of my lungs.

“Her grandparents were slaves,” Father retorted, venom and hatred filling his previously dull voice. “Now go to your room, young lady, you have no right to yell at your parents like that.”

I stormed up to my room, each step leaving me more enraged than the last. I slammed the door closed with as much force as I could muster. I looked in the mirror to see my disheveled appearance. My blonde wavy hair that had been carefully brushed was now frizzy and sticking out in certain places. My freckled face was as red as a tomato and wet with tears. But my tarnished outward appearance was nowhere near as bad as the mess that was going on in my head. My thoughts swirled together like a storm, and I could hardly grasp onto one before it slipped away like sand through my fingers.

Thoughts like, how could my parents react like that and this can’t be happening rushed through my mind like a whirlwind. Until finally, breaking through the fog that was my mind came a crystal clear train of thoughts. Why is the world like this? How many families and friends have been torn apart thanks to the Jim Crow laws? Do most white people really consider black people to not be human? It’s just a different skin color? That notion was the straw that broke the camel’s back as a newfound determination coursed through my veins; I knew what I had to do.

That very same night, the city was quiet; it was as if the entire world was holding its breath in anticipation for what was to come. I tiptoed through the house, a bag filled with as many supplies as I could handle slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Finally, I approached the door. But just when I was reaching my hand towards the doorknob, I looked back, my face filled with doubt. If I desired, there was still time to turn back and lay in my bed as if nothing had happened. No, I thought to myself, I’m not that same cowardly and naive girl that I was.  I steadily braced myself for what was to come, took a deep breath, and slowly opened the door, a thousand eyes in the night sky staring at me. I may never be able to go back and save Margaret, but I can still help others.

 

 

 

 

-Veronica S.