Good Memories

Many times I write about the horrible childhood I had. But there were happy memories too. One was when we moved to Cincinnati. I had no friends and we were living in a very low income area. An area with families just trying to survive. At that time I wasn’t aware if there were drugs around me or not. I was seven and a latch key kid. I was home alone a lot. We lived in an apartment complex and as a white girl I was a minority. Again, I really wasn’t aware of that. I made friends with a sweet little black girl. I don’t even remember her name, what I do remember is her family. .She brought me home, and she had a huge family. I spent the summer with them What attracted me to them was the love and unity. The older girls taking care of the younger ones. The teasing, the corn row braiding in a line from oldest to youngest. They found things to do that were fun and cost no money. I learned to do all the seventies disco moves from them. They created a love for dancing in me. I also learned about prejudice from them. They would call each other the “N” word. I used it once and they told me I wasn’t allowed. I asked why? And they told me about prejudice. And how some white people treated them. I was ashamed for my race and I cried that this loving sweet family was treated with hate. They told me I could use it. Even at that age I realized the enormity of telling me it was ok to use that word. How forgiving that was too me, and that I was accepted. But I told then I would never use that word and I haven’t. I miss that family. I still dream about them and their kitchen table. I think I understood what family was supposed to be from them. I realized that I didn’t have a “normal” family but at least for a little while I was part of one.