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.

[Chloe Madison Taylor.]

I really love this because i can tell its real. It really happened.
And if it didnt, well then, that makes it all the better.
Really, really good.

[Flow]

wow.. this is one of the best I have read here because it is so intimate and real. It reads like a story in the form of a poem. unforgetable this one is.

[Baby Boy]

Wow! This is beautiful and very well written and you sure do have such a way with words! I really enjoyed this write and the beauty of your memories! Great job sweetie and very refreshing in my eyes! :) One luv Miss Misty!


-JC-

[Keith]

Beautiful little piece of, I hope fiction, if not, welcome to the very peculiar generation walking this earth who need not repent for the societal bigotry they endorsed or ignored. Felons they are all.
Fabulous write. Captivating in its continuity. Poignant in its message and relevance.

Positivity towards you.

[Phill Oz O'fee]

An excellent reflective composition of our progression from prejudicial ignorance, denial and shame, to acknowledgement of both ourselves and forbearers transgressions, towards another. To admit wrong, is the beginning of forgiveness and reconciliation. After reading this, I was reminded of this passage;

Colossians 1:14 (The Message)

13-14God rescued us from dead-end alleys and dark dungeons. He's set us up in the kingdom of the Son he loves so much, the Son who got us out of the pit we were in, got rid of the sins we were doomed to keep repeating.

Sad, poignant and wonderful share!

God's Blessing
Phillozofee

[Lydia Shutter]

Chills....that is the reaction I have after reading your honest account of a memory.....a memory that makes me believe you are more judgmental of yourself than others would be of you. A childlike vulnerability peeks out between the lines here. Beautifully written. lydia

[Yvonne Heidt]

I agree that this has excellent imagery. You wrote this with a haunting and honesty that humbles me. Beautiful job, Misty. Thank you for sharing this piece.

I went home again, so ashamed
how dare I live here in this house so filled with plastic things...

Excellent.

[Michael X]

Magnificent kris, touching, well-devised
deligation of heart, displaying the emotional
fragility of a memory as an excerpt of
charactor symbolism reflecting the complexity
that stands alone, love this, surely cuts
straight to core of thought, truly brilliant, peace, mike

[Creepy Swine Guy]

I am unsure of what happened to my review here. I have this in my favorites, yet my review is gone. There is so much I like here. The stark contrast between the haves and the have-nots. The view from the perspective of a child who could see that something was askew. Even if she couldn't quite comprehend or grasp it. She knew that something was amiss. The images that you hand us of your memories are sharp and in clear focus ... I could go on forever.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I think children are the conscience of the world. They suffer the sins of the father, and they feel the guilt and shame. We can only hope that when one looks in the mirror of life and sees its ugly reflection, that he will endeavor to change that reflection by becoming someone different than that from which he came.

By virtue of your writing, you are endeavoring to change the world.

God speed!