Date: 4/16/2018, Categories: Interracial, Author: billy, Source: LushStories
Many years later, after taking my virginity, Rosie would tell me that it was what I wrote to her in third grade that initially endeared me to her. A couple mean boys had taunted her about her skin color on the playground and I was a silent observer of the incident. My heart went out to her when I saw her lower lip tremble, followed closely by a steady stream of large tears wetting her dark cheeks. She didn’t run away in spite of the hurt put on her by her young white tormentors. She just stood and took the abuse that was heaped upon her. To my lifelong regret, I stood and watched and did nothing. Rosie was one of only two black girls attending Holy Cross elementary school. The year was 1960. Rosie was a tiny little thing, with thin legs and brightly colored ribbons in her kinky hair. Her parents were immigrants from Kenya who had come to America for a better life. Rosie and her family were true outsiders in the Northwest corner of Indiana we grew up in. On that warm day in May I heard terrible things said to her by our classmates, things that I would never forget, and I was ashamed and angered by what I heard. Even after Rosie was reduced to tears the torrents of insults continued until the recess bell rang and we returned to our classroom. Rosie wiped away her tears and gathered herself, and by the time she was seated in our classroom her bright eyes were clear. I noticed a stoic, defiant expression on her face. Anger that would never leave her had established a place ...