PLEASE SEE DISCLAIMER ON PART 1 BEFORE TAKING OFFENSE.
My mother was a screamer. The worst days were when she cleaned the house. I had made friends in the neighborhood and spent most of my time outside when not in school. My brothers and sisters were quickly engrossed in their teenaged lives. My world was segregated, but lacked peace. There were fights between girls at school and in the neighborhood, often. By junior high school I was walking to and from school instead of taking the bus, to avoid the turmoil. I hoped high school would be better, but that’s when the “race thing” re-entered my life.
My high school was in the middle of a 99% white community. The answer to segregation that those in charge came up with was bussing. Students were bussed from minority neighborhoods to diversify communities like ours. The problem was the tension that ensued. You could feel it like a thick cloud when you walked on campus. There were regularly fights and riots. I lived in fear. Rumors of racial attacks in the girls’ bathrooms, from both sides, kept me from using the bathroom for the majority of my high school years. The drug problem was also a huge issue and my friends and I joined in full force.
I made two black friends in four years. It wasn’t acceptable to hang out with “the other side”, but one day, I made a friend. It was my sophomore year. I was sitting in first period Foods class. We sat at tables of four and I was rolling a joint in my lap. One of my best friends came to the door, who happened to be munching from the joint we smoked on the way to school. She was hoping we were cooking that day and she could grab a snack. It wasn’t the first time she showed up at our door. The teacher, aggravated by her visit, commanded me to step out into the hall. There I sat, with a pile of pot in my lap, frozen in place. The little black girl who sat to my left whispered, “Slide it over here.” I had little choice. I slid the newspaper in my lap and my stash to her under the table. In the hall I gave my friend a slap in the head for putting me in such a position, believing that the girl on the other side of the race issue was in the process of stealing my drugs. When I went back into class she slid my stash back to me untouched. She whispered, “I want some”. I nodded my agreement. She deserved some type of payment.
A friendship developed after that incident, with all four of us who shared the table. One was a very scared, white orphan who was living with her aunt and uncle. She was terrified to get into trouble, fearing being kicked out of her home. The other student was a black guy who turned out to be really sweet. He was always concerned about me when rumors of riots were flying around. It became my favorite, most comfortable class, after the day my enemy saved my butt.
I quit school in January of my senior year, three weeks short of my 18th birthday. My counselor, a black woman, convinced me to get the one English credit I needed to graduate on Saturdays at Extension School. I owe her my high school diploma. She told me that Extension School was for those who truly wanted to learn and achieve a diploma. My first Saturday I opened the door of the school to see two guys I knew. One yelled, “Someone to party with!” when he saw me. The three of us devised a plan to meet 15 minutes early each Saturday, so we could smoke a joint before class. It was a sham, but I got a D and got my diploma. Thanks, Ms. Browning.
My mother, who was totally uninterested in my education, got very angry when I said I wasn’t going to graduation. I wanted nothing to do with the tense climate of school. The funny thing is, the newspaper reported, “…a disgusting display…” as a new cloud, a pot cloud, engulfed the class on the football field. High school for me was just another confusing time, on the race thing and life.
To be continued . . .