First grade. Mrs. Reiger, a tiny and rather frail looking lady wore huge, brown-rimmed eye-glasses that made her look like an owl. Even on the most sweltering days in Miami Beach, she would wear a knit or crocheted sweater draped over her shoulders and she always had some form of stocking over the toes that poked out of her open-toed sandals. I can remember being a line leader, beaming with pride as I held Mrs. Reiger’s hand through the hallway to the cafeteria. Even then, she seemed so delicate and her hands were like ice that might shatter if I held on too tightly.
Other than these images of my teacher, I only have two distinct memories of that year in first grade. The first, and least important of remembrances, is that Mrs. Reiger classified me as a “chatter-box” on my report card. Somewhere, in some dusty trunk in our attic, there exists an evidentiary note. Written in her dainty scripted hand, Mrs. Reiger informed my mother that I was a very good student, with one exception: I talked too much during class. I suppose my apple Emerson has not fallen far from her proverbial tree. She is in first grade, and it appears as though, like her mother, she has a penchant for chatter that has earned her the nickname “WYFF News 4.”
The second memory I have from first grade is one that I am often ashamed to share. Still, as much as it pains me to recall, I learned one of the most valuable lessons of my young life – a lesson which helped form the foundation upon which I base all of my interactions with people. I share this memory because this experience had such a profound impact on my life and, in exposing my shame, perhaps someone else will glean a certain understanding that will prevent them from making the same mistake as me. I believe quite strongly that when we fail to learn the lessons of history (or experience), we are doomed to repeat them.
Miami was, and always has been, a multi-cultural salad of sorts. In one of my graduate school seminars on Multi-Cultural Counseling, we learned that the idea of a “cultural melting pot” never was a very accurate description of the way a heterogeneous group of people cohabitate or interact. To some extent, our cultures blend, but each of us has a unique set of cultural conventions that we retain in spite of the fact that we might live in an area populated by individuals of differing cultures. There are social norms and mores to which we conform, but this does not detract from our heritage or cultural practices, hence the salad analogy. Salads are tossed mixtures of vegetables, fruits and nuts (depending on one’s salad ingredient preferences); the ingredients all coexist and mingle in the bowl while simultaneously maintaining the flavors and textures that separate them from the others.
The geographical location of Miami Beach – with Cuba and Haiti less than 1,000 miles from its shore – has always been a promised land of sorts for refugees seeking political asylum. I grew up in a city populated not simply with people who checked Caucasian or African American on ethnicity forms; I was fortunate to be nestled among people who checked “other.” In a garden bar chock-full of exotic selections – Dominican, Haitian, Cuban, Puerto Rican, Venezuelan, Argentinean, and Israeli – I was like the ordinary package of Saltine Crackers sitting off in the corner. As a White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant growing up in Miami, I was a minority, which makes my behavior during our first-grade weekly trip to the library all the more bizarre.
Natalie Nicholas was one of my ‘best friends’ when I was in first grade (I use the term loosely because when you’re a little kid, everyone is your best friend). I adored Natalie. She was the tallest girl in our class – maybe in all of first grade. She towered over every one of us, and we all know that with great height came great power – especially on the playground. I remember Natalie being quiet – a gentle giant of sorts. Each day her hair was neatly braided and on the end of each braid was a vibrantly colored plastic barrette in the shape of a bird or an elephant; other days she has a solar-system of multi-colored plastic balls orbiting her head. Her skin was the color of chocolate and she had beautiful big eyes and full pink lips – the kind of pouty perfection women spend millions of dollars on every year.
I cannot remember all of the events surrounding my verbal assault on Natalie that day in the library. All I can remember is being angry with her about something. In my childish attempt at ‘problem-solving’ or getting Natalie back for whatever transgression I felt she had committed, I resorted to the time honored tradition of name calling. My vengeance, however, was more egregious than anything she could have said or done to prompt my retaliation: I called Natalie a nigger. At six years old, I had no idea what the word meant, but I knew enough to know that it would be wounding. The pain and sadness in Natalie’s eyes, the welling of tears that quietly ran down her startled face were all the cues I needed to understand that my retort was unjustifiably cruel. In a thoughtless matter of seconds that six letter word forever altered my relationship with Natalie and cemented the construct through which I would interact with people for the rest of my life.
Natalie told Mrs. Reiger what I had said, and I got in trouble. However, there was no punishment that would have impacted me more powerfully than the wounded look in Natalie’s big, brown eyes. I felt horrible and ashamed, but I’m certain my behavior made Natalie feel measurably worse. One million apologies would never erase the terrible word I had indelibly marked on her soul and in her consciousness. Essayist Robert Fulghum writes in All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, “sticks and stones might break our bones, but words can break our hearts.” True statement.
I dreaded the disappointment I would see in my Mom’s eyes when I told her what I had done. The N-word was not used in our home. It was not a word my Mom used; however, it was a word my Grandpa used without the slightest hesitation. Wherever, from whomever, I learned that word, I also developed an understanding of the context in and purpose for which it was to be used. When I confessed to my Mom, her telling me that I had said a very bad word that I was to never say again had been clarified hours earlier as I looked in Natalie’s eyes. With the one exception of teaching Huck Finn to a sophomore literature class at Clemson, I have never used the N-word again.
After elementary school, I never saw Natalie Nicholas again. I think about her often and wonder where she is and what she’s doing. I wonder if she remembers that day in the library and what she thinks about that event as an adult. That brief moment in time proved to be a pivotal point in the tuning of my moral compass. I learned that language is powerful, and when used maliciously, words can cut deeper than knives. I learned that black, white, red or yellow, people are people and on the inside we all have hearts, souls and minds capable of feeling and understanding universal emotions like sadness, happiness or anger. I learned that insulting someone’s culture, heritage or ethnicity – something over which an individual has no control – is a tremendously hurtful waste of time. Although I loathe the fact that I hurt Natalie, in an instant, I learned that I never wanted to cause pain like that again. Given the opportunity to talk with her all these years later, I would again apologize to Natalie for what I said and did to hurt her. I would also thank her for the valuable lessons she taught me that day.
