Fifth grade, 1968-69. My friend pushes me down the stairs at school and the next day starts pulling my hair and punching me in the stomach. Another friend comes over and hugs me, shielding me from the punches by taking them on her back. I am white. Both of my friends are black. The friend who punches me is angry because our white teacher treats me better.
I have told this story many times. I have told this story until I imagine that I understand it. But I have always focused the lens of the story on the friend who hit me, not on the other friend who hugged me. Remembering her today, I am moved to tears.
When a friend - a young black man - speaks of putting our bodies on the line for one another, I react with uneasiness. Me, put this 61-year-old body on the line for him, or for anyone? It hardly seems likely that I would ever be in a position to do that in any meaningful way, or have the courage to do so. And then up comes this memory, and the purity of that little girl’s intention blows me into humble silence.
I have told this story many times. I have told this story until I imagine that I understand it. But I have always focused the lens of the story on the friend who hit me, not on the other friend who hugged me. Remembering her today, I am moved to tears.
When a friend - a young black man - speaks of putting our bodies on the line for one another, I react with uneasiness. Me, put this 61-year-old body on the line for him, or for anyone? It hardly seems likely that I would ever be in a position to do that in any meaningful way, or have the courage to do so. And then up comes this memory, and the purity of that little girl’s intention blows me into humble silence.