We sat in tiny
chairs at tables made for kids. In the school library, the tops of tables and
the seats of chairs were closer to the floor than what adults typically
experience. We paired off, a dozen adults and a dozen first and second graders.
We were reading. We read to each other. The adult would say a word that the
child stumbled upon. The child would repeat it.
Some children wrote
letters on erasable white boards. One could hear the mysterious soundings-out
of letters and their combinations, the gentle coaxings and coachings that shed
light and pattern. Sight words, flash cards, stapled pages we called books.
Voices blending. Encouragement. Ears yearning.
One boy, an
eight-year-old second grader, reached out to touch my gray hair, grown over the
ears in wintertime, straight and thinning. The boy, polite and energetic and
eager, seemed baffled and amazed at my hair's texture, its novelty. Then he
looked at my hand. This was not our first encounter in the school library; this
was after a few months or more of reading sessions that were not quite reading
yet but were tilled soil for later bloom. He observed the veins in my aging
hand, noticing the blue riverine pattern on these hands holding the stapled
pamphlets we use as books.
"My hand is a
different color," the young fellow stated matter-of-factly.
The way he said
those words, their surprise and frankness and tenderness, caught me off-guard.
It arrested me. For a few beats, I didn’t know how to respond but feared no
response would be a missed opportunity — for what I was not sure.
"Yes, I see
that. Isn't it wonderful?" I quickly managed with a blend of his
matter-of-factness and my mildly suppressed enthusiasm. We then turned to tackle
another pamphlet, a level C or D “book.” The chorus of learning filled the
room.
Upon much later
reflection, I was grateful to my young reading partner for his honesty, authenticity,
and directness. I recalled a moment decades ago in high school. Our teacher, a
Catholic priest of the most progressive leanings, was commenting on Jesus’ oft
quoted, “Suffer (allow) little children to come unto me and forbid them not;
for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” The only lesson I can summon some fifty
years later is that Father Giuliani underscored and celebrated two qualities of
children: simple and direct.
Simple and direct. Yes indeed.
“My hand is a
different color.”
A child’s uncomplicated
observation of fact laden with a history unknown to me, just as mine was
unknown to him.
Had I missed a
deeper and more cogent opportunity? I knew the two of us were not about to
engage in a candid discussion of Race in America. And I sought to avoid either
preachiness or stilted speech. (Truth be told, I thought none of this. I had no
time. Such considerations — and zillions more — rocketed through my brain
before I uttered words.)
Those who parse
such encounters might take me to task for these musings; they might posit a
racial construct in my very questions.
So be it.
It’s what I had at
that moment. In a country whose citizens rarely converse across racial lines,
one to one, over bread or coffee or wine, it’s all we had.
The poet W.H. Auden
wrote, “Love your crooked neighbor with all your crooked heart.”
It’s all we’ve got.
