I was three years old in this photo. My mom and I lived in a little rent house on a little street in the little town of Andrews, Texas. It was a time in my life where I don't remember ever feeling sad. Life was as harmonious and balanced as a string quartet. Mom had a red convertible Fiat that we called Suzie Q. On mornings when she, Suzie, would not start we would plead with her as mom pumped the accelerator and twisted the ignition vigorously. Suzie would chugga chugga chugga, till she sprung to life.
I played with two girls next door. Sisters, one was my age, and one a bit older. I don't remember their names. They both had long straight dark brown hair, and brown eyes. I wasn't really aware of much difference between our family and theirs until the day that I walked into their living room and saw the younger one getting spanked. She was lying across her father's lap with her limbs flailing as her father struck her. It was then that I realized that I didn't have a dad yet. I asked my mom once, shortly thereafter, when she was going to get me a dad. She asked, amused, where I thought she might look for a good one. In my mind I pictured someone with an authoritative hat, like an officer, a pilot, or something like that, so I replied, "At the police station." Mom balked gently, and chuckled. I think she thought I meant an inmate or something.
A new family moved in about four doors down. There were two girls about my age, and a younger brother. All three of them as tow-headed as anyone you've ever seen. The complete opposite of my friends next door. The first time I saw them playing outside I went confidently to meet them. I was happy to meet new kids and eager to see what new games they might have to show me. We played for a while on the sidewalk, as the little baby brother crawled around looking for sticks to gnaw on.
With the slam of a screen door and a little giggle, my friend from next door came out, followed by her sister. I waved and called out, but they seemed not to notice me. Puzzled, I glanced at my new friend for a clue.
"We don't play with them." she sneered.
"Why not?" I asked naively.
"Cuz thir mexkins." said the older blonde sister.
A discordant disturbance burned through my mind. I'd never heard anything so strange. I couldn't imagine, with as few kids as we had on our street, not playing with someone for any reason. And what was a "mexkin" anyway? I thought I knew, but I didn't really have an actual concept. I knew that my friends looked different from me, and that their house had different smells wafting from the kitchen than mine. I knew that they spoke differently sometimes, but I thought all of that was just because they were a different family. What I did know about them was that they smiled and laughed at the same things I did. They liked to drink soda and eat candy. They liked to play, and I was jealous of their sisterhood. It seemed so wonderful to think of always having a playmate.
Confusedly, I asked my blonde friend,
"What's a mexkin?"
She wrinkled her face up, thinking.
"I don't know," she said. "We just don't play with them because they are them."
Dizzied by the blow of discovering irrational thought among people, for the first time, I moped home. I passed by my old friends and they both stared at me anxiously. It felt bad. I could see that they were both hurt. It made me feel ashamed for playing with the new girls. I never played with them again, and they moved away not long after that day. I wished I had never gone to meet them. It wasn't that I had been taught that it was wrong to judge people by their race. In fact I really had no idea what race was. It was simply that I had not been taught to do so.
I would, in the future, learn with even greater clarity about this strange phenomenon. As I sought for a place in my world, I would never cease to be shocked by the madness of judging people, especially children, on the basis of their heritage. To the contrary, I have always felt the keenest curiosity about different cultures, languages, places, and people. It might be that this very experience sparked my intense desire to understand the differences between people. What I always value about the people I love is what makes them different and unique from me and from others. I just wish, sometimes, that I could learn to really value my own unique spirit, rather than feeling like a misfit.
This was a song my mom taught me at that time, and that I think of when I remember this story:
Oh little playmate Come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three
Climb up my apple tree
Slide down my rain barrel
Into my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends Forever more
I'm sorry playmate I cannot play with you
My dolly's got the flu
Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo
'Ain't got no rain barrel
'Ain't got no cellar door
But we'll be jolly friends
Forever more
