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| Me, circa 1975 |
In 1975 I was an innocent five-year-old making my way
through kindergarten, while our country was navigating through the after
effects of the Civil Rights Movement.
Little
did I know that a piece of this country’s strife would dramatically play out in
my classroom.
It was a typical cold spring day when I arrived at school. But, this day was different. Instead of diving into our lessons on colors,
or letters, Mrs. Kramer*, instructed us to gather on the rug in our “special
groups”.
“Today, a special
new student will join us.” She explained.
As we sat on the rug, Mrs. Kramer implored, “Please be nice
to our new friend when she arrives.” She
looked over to my group and said “She will join your group!” I was elated!
I would surely have a new friend!
The room filled with chatter and much anticipation. As I waited, I noticed that something was
different. When I was the “new girl”,
just two months earlier, the other kids were not eagerly awaiting my
arrival. Instead, I remembered entering
the classroom while Mrs. Kramer was teaching, being greeted kindly, given my
seat, and promptly the lesson continued.
I wondered why today it was different.
We heard the door open, as she and her mother entered. Mrs. Kramer greeted them, helped the little
girl hang her coat and then turned her toward us and said “Class, this is
Sylvia.”
To this day, I clearly remember smiling at her and admiring
her beautiful red and blue plaid jumper.
She looked so pretty.
Meanwhile, my classmates were talking amongst themselves. Abruptly, Brian*, another kindergartener,
pointed at my group and loudly exclaimed, “You’ve got a blacky!” Before long, other children began repeating his
words, and steadily, the entire room became filled with five and six year old
voices chanting “You’ve got a blacky! You’ve
got a blacky!”
Immediately, I knew that something was wrong, but couldn’t
make sense of it. I looked at Sylvia,
and took inventory. Her dress was not
black, nor were her shoes. Her hair was
black, but determined that couldn’t be what they were talking about since many others’
in my class also had dark hair. I
wondered, “Could they be talking about her skin?” Immediately, I thought “But, her skin is brown, not black.”
I was uneasy and confused! “What was going on?”
All my classmates surrounding me were chanting. I felt as if
I were the only one who remained silent.
I did not know what to do.
But, I
did do.
And, (to this day) I am ashamed to say, that I
joined in on the hatred and added my five year old voice to that chant.
Tears roll down Sylvia’s face as her mother hurriedly helped
her put on her coat and quickly steered her out the door.
Afterwards, the students quieted. Soon Mrs. Kramer began to teach and we returned to familiar routines of our
school day. The sense of normalcy calmed me.
I never saw Sylvia again.
I didn't speak about that moment, to anyone, until many, many years later.
As I grew and matured, I realized how ghastly that experience
was. I was mortified for Mrs. Kramer, angry
at whoever taught such hatred to my classmates, and shameful of myself.
I have often wondered about Sylvia and how that afternoon
affected her life. How could that moment have been different? What I could have done to prevent such horribleness?
I wish that it hadn’t happened. I wish that Mrs. Kramer would have done
something. I wish that I would have
remained silent. And, I wish that I could
have been brave enough to do something - anything.
But now, mostly, I wish that I could tell Sylvia, “I am sorry”.
*names have been changed.
