When I was a little girl, my parents worked really hard to provide us with the most idyllic life possible. We had dogs, they drove a station wagon, we went to the local Presbyterian Church, we took dance classes, they were Co-Presidents of the PTA, and our dad worked while our mom stayed hope and established our sense of self worth. It was just glorious. I've said it before, we were just like the Cleavers, I mean if Mr. Cleaver was black and Mrs. Cleaver had once tended bar in hot pants and go-go boots. We had a great life and I think that was because my parents wanted to give my sister and I everything that they had never had. My paternal grandparents had not had much money (which was to be expected - they were black and raising ten children in the 30s, 40s and 50s) and my maternal grandparents were not on quite as limited a budget but they were nowhere near rich and were raging racists. So, my parents banded together to raise their children in the most nurturing and comfortable setting humanly possible. And for that I will be eternally grateful... but I was surrounded by the Real World and the Real World was interesting.
At the time I was sure that I lived on the most interesting street in the whole world. There was a boy named Gary that lived across the street from us who's dad (to the best of my recollection) was in a wheelchair because of some torturous war wound... His house was always dark. The little girl to the left of us used to take off all of her clothes and run naked up and down the street until her mom could catch her. Across the street on the other side of our house, was the poorest family on the block - the dad didn't work, drank too much, and used to scream and shout all of the time. (Eventually their house caught fire when, in drunken stupor, he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand). P.D., my first real "tomboy" friend, lived down the block from our house. P.D.'s legs were always dirty and covered in band-aids and her hair was consistently disheveled. For some reason I always got the impression that my mother was not thrilled about our friendship but I thought she was just the coolest girl ever. She taught me how to spit and more importantly how to cuss. (Which is remarkable for two reasons - 1.) my father had a mouth that could make Richard Pryor blush and 2.) because whatever she did stuck and now I have a mouth that would make both, Richard Pryor and my father blush). And finally, right next door was the Wingerter family. The Wingerters were more of a traditional family. One of their sons, Dennis, was my age and my mother was happier about my friendship with him. Dennis and I walked home from school together everyday and I loved it. Although his older brother walked with us, I felt so free and emancipated walking without my mom and occasionally that new found liberation went straight to my 6 year-old brain and made me completely crazy. How so? Let me tell you.
On our way home one day, Dennis's big brother started to tease us about being friends. We tried to ignore him but he just kept going. Eventually we started to get embarrassed and began fighting with each other. He tried to trip me to prove to his "stinky faced" brother that he didn't like me and I very haughtily responded by telling him if he didn't stop I was going to throw "a nigger at him" (P.D. taught me how to cuss but she didn't actually teach me what any of the words meant) The minute we made it to my house, Dennis's "stinky faced" brother told my mom. You can imagine the hysteria that ensued... My mom was livid! And then she told my dad and he was not any happier!
Did I get a time out? No, of course not (I told you my dad was black... we don't do that!) Did I get my ass beat? No (my mom is generally a pacifist - except when she is kicking ass at the roller rink). So they just let it go? Hell no (this is my life remember). They made me look "Nigger" up in the dictionary, write it down and then go to the Wingerter's house read the definition and apologize to his entire family for the misuse of the word. It was humiliating and quite frankly I didn't understand why "Stinky Face" didn't have to say he was sorry for teasing me and Dennis didn't have to apologize to me for trying to trip me. In hindsight though, I think my parents did the right thing. "Stinky Face" grew up to be some sort of professional heckler and I am almost positive that Dennis went on to trip again... but me... I never again, not even once, threatened to throw a nigger at someone.
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