Jim Ellis
Published: February 18 2004
I can remember the time and place I discovered racism. I was seven years old and had a network of eight or nine friends that extended several blocks. We would always play together on afternoons and weekends.
My circle of friends included, Brian (not his real name).
Brian was just like me in every way, but one. He was black and I was white.
My friends and I would play football in the middle of the street and have to stop the game every time a car passed by.
Other times we would walk a block over and play basketball at the playground at Malibu elementary school, which is where we all went to school during the day.
When we could convince some neighbor to let us mow his or her lawn for some ridiculously low “I’m exploiting a group of kids” price, we would all team up and finish the lawn in record time, split our earnings between the eight of us and then go to Zero’s sub shop to play video games.
Other times we would simply go to someone’s house and hang out.
Once we went to Billy’s house (not his real name). Brian wasn’t with us, but was supposed to catch up later.
I can still remember Billy’s house because he lived four blocks over. It was where the rich people lived, or at least, people who could afford nicer homes than the ones the rest of us were living in.
It was a two-story home with a huge front yard and Billy’s bedroom was upstairs.
We all ran up the stairs to his room and I made a beeline for Billy’s collection of Star Wars action figures and wished my mom would buy me more toys like Billy’s parents had.
What a lucky guy, I thought.
Someone by the window said, “Brian is coming.”
I just figured Billy would run downstairs and let him in, but that’s not what happened.
Billy lifted the window and shouted down to Brian, “I am not allowed to play with you; you have to leave.”
I didn’t understand. Brian lived on my block. We were at each other’s house every day. Our parents took turns watching after us. What was Billy talking about?
I jumped up and positioned myself by the window with everyone else and could see tears beginning to form in Brian’s eyes.
“It’s because I’m black,” Brian said over and over again. “It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?”
I was confused. I can still remember the dirty feeling that I felt.
“Just let him come up, Billy. What’s the big deal?” I said.
Seven white boys were staring down at poor Brian, as he cried. Finally he looked up at us and said, “You’re all a bunch of racists.”
He turned around and walked off.
I felt dirtier.
I wish I could say that I ran downstairs and caught up with Brian, but I didn’t. I turned around with my dirty feeling and resumed playing with Billy’s Star Wars action figures.
I’ll always regret that.
Later that day I saw Brian and he asked me why I stayed in Billy’s house. I don’t remember what I told him, but I do know that Brian and I remained friends while Billy did not come around anymore.
I thought Billy was lucky for living in a two-story house and having the complete collection of Star Wars action figures.
I am thankful that I was never taught racism from my parents. In fact, I have never heard a racial epitaph spoken from their lips. I was always encouraged to interact with people regardless of color.
When I finally did learn racism from Billy, I was smart enough to reject it. I knew better.
Brian and I remained close friends until my family moved from the area five years later.
Billy wasn’t so lucky after all. In fact, if you ask me, it was Brian and I who were the lucky ones.
