Little White Girl

Based on events from my childhood growing up in South Carolina.

We lived in the suburbs of Charleston when I was a girl. 

It was hot, so we ran from house to house, 
burning the bottoms of our feet, 
collapsing into the cool of our air conditioned houses, 
took swimming lessons in our own blue pools. 

When the hurricanes came,

we were safe inside our brick fortresses. 
Still, we held our breath as the silent eye passed over 
I knew it was watching, testing us. 

My best friend in school was not welcome in my neighborhood. 
The daddies thought her skin would run off into the water 
and it would never come clean.
I invited all the girls I knew to my birthday party, 
but she was the only one allowed to come. 

We picked her up, and I knew for the first time 
as we pulled up to her door 
that we were from different worlds.
I never wanted her to see my house, 
could not fathom betraying her with that truth, 
but there was no turning back. 
We lay there silent that night, 
both of us knowing. 

My mama threw parties. That’s what she did, 

so I learned to smile and curtsy, 
though I wanted to hide in a book in my walk in closet. 
When they would go on vacation, mammy would come. 
We would hide the Jamaican woman 
that covered our toaster, 
but I knew somehow, that single act, did not help any of us forget. 
Forget that my grandfathers owned hers, not too far from here. 

When I was alone with mammy 
we didn't talk at all, which was uncomfortable at first, 
talking being a social virtue and all.
Before long though, I got used to the rhythm of her silence. 

One day she took me to her house. 
I walked into her black and white world 
(funny how I remember it that way). 
I walked through the dirt that was her yard, 
into her wooden house, not much more than a slave shack, 
I see now. 

It was dark in there, but sacred. 
She showed me lace she had made, 
a medal that her husband wore, 
a broach her mama used. 
I felt like looking in her top drawer was looking into a vault, 
so precious were those things. 
I went home again, so ashamed.
How dare I live here in this house, so filled with plastic things, 
things I don’t care about. 

She drew my bath for me that night, 
an inch of water 
and asked me if it was enough. 
Yes maim, I said. 

She never touched me. 
I followed the dark wrinkles of her hands, 
wishing she would open them, 
hold my face like she would 
the little boy from the photograph by her bed, 
knowing she could not. 

Freezing, wanting more water 

to cover my naked skin, 
wanting to get clean, 

I sat there 
hoping, 
praying, 
please God, 
don't let her see

me tremble.

Reviews

[J.P. Bristow]

The scary thing is when I went to visit my brother who went to school in west virginia I was surprized that this still lives-thrives-dwells. Segregation is a part of peoples everyday lives......I remember talking about where I lived to a school mate of his and he looked at me wide eyed my neighbors are Cuban, Jewish, Chinese and all are upper middle class and we have barbeques together- kids play together- adults build fences-pkay soccer or baseball. crazy world. This peice was wonderful. It spoke to me. You really tapped into a genre here that is sometimes talked about too politically correct or too rough/harsh. This was penned with really good skill.....into my favorites.

[Patient Poet (Yos)]

I followed your words, you told me a wonderful story , I believe that most are still undercovered , you need to tell more ... nothing should be covered under those old feelings ... I would love to hear more ... Yossi

[Eagle Cruagh]

The writing is phenomenal.
I will not comment on the conditions
mentioned because I know not about
such things.
Please continue your writing, because it
is some of the best writing I have seen.
----- Eagle Cruagh

[Theresa]

An absolutely amazing, heart touching piece. The truth that lies within the words makes this very powerful and gives the reader a sense of what life was like for you as a little girl. I'd say I can never imagine a world such as this since it was before my time, but discrimination is still very much a constant. People are discriminated for so many different reasons whether it be race, wealth, appearance etc and this poem reminds us why. Why do people still discriminate against others? There is so much more behind what you see, just like you displayed within your poem. Nicely done this truly was a great piece. Thanks for sharing.

[Hannah Estar]

Wow.... This writing was recommended on the page of another writer I was reviewing, and I can see why... This is absolutely brilliant... Utterly thought-provoking... Being anti-materialistic, I must say that this is the best illustration of my views, and it isn't even a statement... It seems a truth, written on a paper, a truth that some would deny... a matter of racism and of materialism... Very very very very well written!! ... I cannot see a way in which I could better illustrate the disease that is misunderstanding and the guise of happiness behind multitudes of worthless possessions rather than the true happiness that comes from only what truly makes one happy... so fascinating. I am in awe.

[Anastasia Starlena]

Such a very intriguing piece. I like the way you take the reader on a journey that was very I am sure hard for alittle girl to fathom. All the issues in her world were either white or black. Children are unique they very rarely have prejudices. when we get older I think we form them off of the opinions of others instead of looking within the heart. This was a brilliant piece. Very well written.

[Shellie]

I'm not sure if this is true or not, I've never witnssed segregation like that firsthand except for just one time... a black woman, and I say black because they call us white and i am not racist, was in front of me in the queue for a bus in Dublin and she turned and said 'you may go' and i said 'why, do u need help with[her baby in a buggy] she noddd yes and she handed me the baby and put the buggy in and went and stood at the bottom of the queue..i stood in after giving her back her ADORABLE baby yet she kept standing at the end as more people joined. I couldnt mind my own business that day so i went back and asked her what she was doing, that she'd have no seat if she didnt stay in the Q. I cant remember where she said she was from but she told me women have to q last and let 'superiors' in front as well. So i told her she was now in Ireland and we dont work that way and she accepted it. That stayed with me for years i was 19 at the time and 5 years later i still wonder how she is.

Is your story true? it sounds very real the way you tell it. I think it was a fantastic piece regardless of being fiction or not, either way you told a sad story of segregation and your feelings towards it all...humane as they are. Nice writing.

[bluessadmood]

That was a wonderful write,i would call it..I feel so ashamed
My friend at school not welcomed in my neighborhood
thought her skin would run off in water
never wanted her to see my house or my life
we lay silent at night,both thinking
one day i saw her house,a world of black and white
she showed me lace she made
things so precious ,i was so ashamed
thought of home,how dare i live here,all plastic things
she drew me a bath that night,was it enough,she asked
never touched me,as i sat there hoping praying
Please God dont let her see me..tremble
that was so nice..wonderful write,gentle tender feelings,we are all brothers and sisters
its the same breath,same blood ,same feelings,same thoughts..is it the color
that makes us so nonhuman..how silly.how detestable..
lovely write..

[AK]

Remarkable piece of writing!
I grew up here in Alaska where the lines are drawn between whites and natives. I remember going to the bank one afternoon with my mom, it was in downtown Anchorage. She told me to go sit in the waiting area while she took care of the banking. I was five or six I guess... I sat down and two native kids came in. They were about my age, a boy and a girl. They came up to me and told me I couldn't sit there. I didn't know what to do so I just looked at them, not moving. I've never forgotten even after almost fifty years, the little girl took one step closer and spit on me.
I guess it goes both ways.

[Winter McPherson]

This is an amazing piece. Very raw and real. It begs to be read more then once. Should be published. Excellent!

[A.T.B.]

The lines are not begging; they are demanding as they are cutting through