dirty when I was supposed to stay clean and keeping Granny Bits happy with me. I know you worry about whether I’m bothered that the white kids aren’t talking to me or welcoming me back and whether I feel okay about my scar. I didn’t really expect the white kids would welcome us — this is the first year our school is integrated. I don’t feel like talking to them either, to be honest. Shag’s injury made me look at things different like. I think the lump in my throat, the one that kept me from saying what I felt or what I thought, is gone now, dissolved by my fear for Shag. Sometimes, Miss Anderson, it feels like a part of me has given up on being treated equal — on seeing the world get better for me than it was for my parents or grandparents. And yet I’ve had glimpses, from you and from Doc Fleck, of what it
is
like to be treated equal, and I’ve liked it, and that is part of what makes things not easy anymore. Seeing what life
could
be like is hard. What if I’ll always be coming in the back door, always be separate, always take a backseat? I don’t think that will be okay with me. And I can see that it isn’t going to be okay with lots of people — like James. But there are a lot of other people in the world who don’t want things to change, and that will be hard for them too. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to act, when I’m supposed to speak, or when I’m supposed to be quiet — and I don’t know if I even care about following the rules of the “supposed to do’s.” I think the world is going to be very unhappy for a while. And this is hard. Being five or something like that looks good again. But you can’t go back to being five, can you?
Sometimes, when you make us work in groups — and I’m not saying which days because they all run together from when I wasn’t writing to you before Shag was hurt, and since then I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this and I can’t make sense of it all — I’ve been watching how all of us treat each other. And the white kids don’t really know what to do about it all either. I see them starting to be nice too sometimes. Then it’s like they realize they aren’t supposed to do that, like they might get in trouble at home or one of their friends might tease them or something, and they get double nasty just to make sure they don’t look too nice to one of us black kids.
We start working together like regular kids, but then all of a sudden we remember, oh, yeah, they’re
them.
For instance, I worked once in a group with Frank Charles Feagans, good old David Warren, and that simpy Laura Westover. I think you had us looking up facts on ancient Egypt. Anyway, there I am, poring over the
Encyclopedia Britannica,
and Frank Charles, the little idiot, says, “Is your scar hurting today? There’s a storm coming in later this evening. Sometimes people with scars can feel storms coming in their scars, and it hurts.”
Great — calling more attention to my scar in front of Laura Westover, who sat up straight and stared at my cheek in complete fascination. She, David, and Frank Charles discussed the origin of the scar for a good ten minutes while I fumed. Frank Charles was bragging —
bragging
— about his part in the whole situation.
Laura pronounced, “That is one ugly scar, Kizzy Ann, but you could cover it with makeup from the Drug Fair — they have everything. Seems to me I’ve seen makeup for people of your complexion there.”
Frank Charles was nodding his head like his neck had a spring in it and repeating the words “There you go.”
David just mumbled, “I think she’s right purty like she is.”
I could feel a blush spreading from the base of my neck to the roots of my hairline, and I wished so much for the ability to blend in. Curse Frank Charles Feagans and his stupid scythe.
Laura actually pushed my hair back from my face and touched my scar, saying, “If you put makeup right here,” and then she
is
like to be treated equal, and I’ve liked it, and that is part of what makes things not easy anymore. Seeing what life
could
be like is hard. What if I’ll always be coming in the back door, always be separate, always take a backseat? I don’t think that will be okay with me. And I can see that it isn’t going to be okay with lots of people — like James. But there are a lot of other people in the world who don’t want things to change, and that will be hard for them too. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to act, when I’m supposed to speak, or when I’m supposed to be quiet — and I don’t know if I even care about following the rules of the “supposed to do’s.” I think the world is going to be very unhappy for a while. And this is hard. Being five or something like that looks good again. But you can’t go back to being five, can you?
Sometimes, when you make us work in groups — and I’m not saying which days because they all run together from when I wasn’t writing to you before Shag was hurt, and since then I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this and I can’t make sense of it all — I’ve been watching how all of us treat each other. And the white kids don’t really know what to do about it all either. I see them starting to be nice too sometimes. Then it’s like they realize they aren’t supposed to do that, like they might get in trouble at home or one of their friends might tease them or something, and they get double nasty just to make sure they don’t look too nice to one of us black kids.
We start working together like regular kids, but then all of a sudden we remember, oh, yeah, they’re
them.
For instance, I worked once in a group with Frank Charles Feagans, good old David Warren, and that simpy Laura Westover. I think you had us looking up facts on ancient Egypt. Anyway, there I am, poring over the
Encyclopedia Britannica,
and Frank Charles, the little idiot, says, “Is your scar hurting today? There’s a storm coming in later this evening. Sometimes people with scars can feel storms coming in their scars, and it hurts.”
Great — calling more attention to my scar in front of Laura Westover, who sat up straight and stared at my cheek in complete fascination. She, David, and Frank Charles discussed the origin of the scar for a good ten minutes while I fumed. Frank Charles was bragging —
bragging
— about his part in the whole situation.
Laura pronounced, “That is one ugly scar, Kizzy Ann, but you could cover it with makeup from the Drug Fair — they have everything. Seems to me I’ve seen makeup for people of your complexion there.”
Frank Charles was nodding his head like his neck had a spring in it and repeating the words “There you go.”
David just mumbled, “I think she’s right purty like she is.”
I could feel a blush spreading from the base of my neck to the roots of my hairline, and I wished so much for the ability to blend in. Curse Frank Charles Feagans and his stupid scythe.
Laura actually pushed my hair back from my face and touched my scar, saying, “If you put makeup right here,” and then she
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