At 9, I had an up-close and personal look at the racial divide.

It happened during my family’s trip to a suburban Chicago shopping mall. As we exited a large department store, another child got my attention.

He was with his family too. I wondered if he was just as amazed by being in the 1970’s megastructure.

But he was amazed by something else. He yelled, “Mommy, look at all the Black people!”

I looked to see the people he saw.

Being African-American, I saw Black people all the time. As the obvious conclusion sunk in, I knew the boy was looking at my parents, my three siblings and me.

My would-be playmate became my White audience instead.

Our child-to-child connection was tainted. It felt like he was on vacation and I was on display — for all the wrong reasons.

My mother’s face grew concerned. I’d been exposed to the racism virus and it was too late to give me a vaccine.

I’d have to build up immunity over time. I’d need doses of truth to counteract the attempt to inject me with insignificance.

The boy’s mother made a poor attempt to hide her embarrassment. Avoiding eye contact with us, she grabbed her son’s hand and hurried away.

But they left the insidious residue of an “us and them” mentality. It stuck with me and tried to mutate my thinking. I fought back hard, because…
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