A Page From My Childhood

A Page From My Childhood

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I have absolutely no idea what to write about for this week's column. So. Rather than try to fake it with a bunch of insouciant blathering, or try to sound enigmatic as I drone on about some latent neo-philosophical paradigm regarding psychological Bolshevism found in Sponge Bob Square Pants, at great risk to my very humble image, I'll simply talk about...me.
"I was born a poor black child," as Steve Martin said in The Jerk. Well, I wasn't black. But I thought I was. At least I felt black. That's because I was poor – very poor – and went to a mostly black and Hispanic school when I was a kid. All the black kids were middle class. Most of the white kids, the few that there were, enjoyed the same status as I did: Impoverished.
When one has a penurious family history, one must live, if one is white, among the minorities. The minorities I lived among were mostly your average American mid-level income families. If I would have been of that same level of economic background, I would probably have gone to a mostly white school. They didn't have segregation then, so all the poor white kids went to black schools. I don't know why, that's just the way it was...for me, anyway.
My best friend was a very dark skinned, somewhat reserved kid named JB, who seemd to be always smiling as if he'd caught on to a joke that no one else was aware of.
We were inseparable and got along wonderfully.
But poverty brings with it many disadvantages. One of those disadvantages was having a family of Democrats who, like certain Gypsy tribes, consider there being poor of no fault of their own, and therefore, fully justified in making a living in any way they can. We could steal, or sell drugs, or whatever it took to maintain a healthy alcohol supply. After all, it was this damned American government never gave us a chance. Naturally, we moved a lot, so my friendship with JB didn't even span a full school year.
I went to one school where I spent, from registration, getting schedules and attending class, a total of one week. Then it was off to Fresno, or Sacramento, or maybe, if one of the parasitic degenrates that traveled with the 'clan' was hiding out from the police, Arizona.
I think living with the darker races gave me a taste for black women. I hope this doesn't offend anyone, I'm only guessing at the reason. But the truth is, I love the way black women look. Not the light skinned ones so much, but the very very dark, coal black, ebony women you might find in some Equatorial village. There is something about them that to me is just simply...well, lovely.
It might have something to do with Teresa. She was a little girl in my fourth grade class with jet black skin the color of an African midnight. I was always the poor, shabby dressed white kid, so maybe it was no more than a pre-maternal instinct, but she would always smile kindly at me. And my gosh! I thought she was absolutely beautiful. Even now I can see her pretty black face, her almond shaped eyes, her perfect white teeth grinning that brilliant warmth. I was as white as they came. My nick-name was ghost. Ivory blonde hair, light blue eyes, pure linen white skin. Hitler would have given Poland for me. Maybe I intrigued her as much as she did me. Who knows?
The poor thing made the mistake of getting into a fight with another very lovely little girl named Brenda. She was white, although I don't think there was anything racial in the conflict. Brenda was very pretty, but one of those little hellions when you got her mad. She was on top of Teresa, and tearing at her like a crazed animal. I felt so sorry for my sweet Teresa when they were separated. Her little eyes were red with tears, her pretty little lip quivering. Brenda on the other hand, when the teacher pulled her off, was scratching at him and growling, "Let me go...let me GO!" as he carried her away to the principals office. Shortly after that, I never saw either of them again. You guessed it. We had to move.
I think about them from time to time, wondering where they are, who they are today. Are they still pretty? Were they ever really pretty? Are they still essentially the same persons that they were back then, in grade school, a lifetime ago? Are they still female? Now days, that's a consideration.
Teresa: A little ebony goddess with such feminine sweetness. Brenda: A fair skinned little Siren with a temper that, even then in my pre-pubescent boyhood, thrilled me for some unknown reason. I wish I had kissed you both back when innocence flourished and gentle adolescent youth blessed our tender cheeks. Fondly, oh so fondly, I remember...

Keck