…We were the only black family on the block in a predominantly white neighborhood. Other than us being colored and the others being white, for most of my early years I didn’t perceive any difference between my family and the rest. Even in a Southern town like Savannah, I didn’t understand what or who Jim Crow was other than it was something really bad. Adults talked about it in hushed tones which only made me perk up my ears more. But the pained looks on their faces while they swept their heads from side to side made me uneasy. What I did understand was that that Jim Crow was not to be fooled with. Like many children, I was fortunate to be sheltered from the harshest realities of racism.

       Race relations in the South were the least of our worries with Little Momma so sick most of the time.  When she didn’t have the energy to do basic chores around the house, to fix us something to eat, or read us a story, Grandma Sara would fill in.  Daddy Pops would always help out when he got home from work.  We tried to help as much as we could without getting in the way, but a lot of times we made even more of a mess. 

       From time to time we would give Grandma Sara a break and go next door to the Fire Chief’s house.  He had kids about our age.  I played fashion consultant as my imagination coordinated outfits for my short thin paper models.  My playmate’s white long-haired dolls really captured my attention.  They were so very pretty.  And I had such fun dressing them up and combing their hair.  Not once did it occur to me that I could not grow up to be one of them, beautiful, a permanent smile on my face, and everything right with the world.  I claimed them as my own, shaking my head as her mother took them from my hands when it was time to go home.