30 Letters in 30 Days....Day Seventeen: someone from my childhood...

Dear Mr. Freeman, When I was a very little girl, my mom would often send me outside to play just to get me out of her hair. I would wander down the street, past the back door of my Dad's restaurant, past the rickety fence, and past your shop where you would be working all alone on a car or two. If I timed it right I would get past your shop just about the time you would be opening up the brown bag that held your lunch. I think Mrs. Freeman made your lunch each day. At least I like to think she did. If it was lunch time I would wander in the big open garage doors and say hello. You'd always smile and pick me up to sit on one of those big metal oil drums and then you'd open the brown bag and we'd share your sandwich or cookies or fried chicken and I'd ask you a million and a half questions and you'd answer them as best you could. You were one of the kindest people I'd ever met and I was absolutely fascinated with your dark brown skin and white, white teeth. You see, back then, I didn't see too many African American people. In fact, until I met you, I didn't even know there were African American people. I know that sounds insane but that was a different time and place. Not one for the better either because I have to believe that we have taken some steps to live as equal partners in this world. But then, you were it for me! I vaguely recall how volatile that time was. I remember seeing race riots on the TV news that my Dad watched. I was too young to understand what was going on but the sight of the police pushing angry mobs back or using fire hoses scared me! I didn't know why they would do that because my Mom always told me that the police were my friend but those police officers on the news did NOT look very friendly. They looked mean and that scared me! I remember meeting your son once. He was a teen ager or older back then. I was about 4 years old I think and at your shop sharing a root beer. He came in and was very upset that I was there. I don't remember everything he said but I do remember him calling me a "stupid little white girl" and I remember you became upset too. I think he called you some names and said some more stuff about white people and then he left in a hurry in the car you fixed up for him. I remember that so clearly. When I told my Mom about sharing your lunch once in a while she told me that you were a very nice man and that I shouldn't bother you when you were working. But later that day she sent me over with a brown bag of my own - this time filled with sandwiches and cupcakes for both of us. It was her way of saying thank you for being so tolerant of a mooching little kid like me. My Dad liked you too. I remember you came to the bar once in a while and my Dad would like talking to you for a long time. I would sit at the end of the bar and listen. My Dad was a talker, for sure, but you also seemed to enjoy those conversations. When I went to kindergarten I met my teacher, the second African American person I can remember, or at least the second to impact my life. Her name was Mrs. Listenbee. She was the smartest, most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I remember asking her if she knew you. My kindergartener mind thought all people with brown skin must know each other. I know now that's crazy but at that age I didn't know any better. She smiled at my question and said that she didn't know you but then asked me about you and listened intently when I told her that you were one of my best friends. The old bar and restaurant are long gone and so is your shop. I still wonder what ever happened to you and if you ever remember me. I also wonder if your son still feels so much hatred for "stupid little white girls". I hope not. I hope he has met some white people who have been decent and kind and not prejudiced. Thanks for the sandwiches, Mr. Freeman! And thanks for the life lessons too! Your friend, Mary Beth