In the 1970s, I grew up in a diverse neighborhood where the doors were always open. We were typical Gen X kids, running in and out of each other's homes regardless of race. We addressed every mother as "Mrs." and knew that if we misbehaved, any of them had the authority to discipline us.
One afternoon, while playing at my friend Greg's house, his sister's friend stopped by with a puppy. I was nine years old. Without thinking, I squatted down to pet the dog. Suddenly, a sharp slap across my hand knocked me off balance.
"Get your white hand off my dog!" she snapped.
Greg’s sister rushed to help me up, scolding her friend, "You be nice to her, she's just a little girl!" But I was too confused to listen. I stared at my hand, trying to figure out what was wrong with it. I looked at my friend’s hand, then down at my own, and finally at the dog.
Then, it clicked. She hadn't hit me because I was rough with the puppy; she hit me because I was white. My parents had always taught me that we were all the same on the inside, but that day, a teenager taught me a painful lesson about the reality of racism.
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