Number One (1969)

Racial Segregation In 1969

I was at a school where racial segregation SEEMED to be the greatest thing since sliced bread. To them. Because the black girls had total control over our entire environment, and all the boys were in their section of the playground. The black girls were somehow in the spread out zone map of egalitarian war. I was the “journalist.” I wandered the playground, interviewing every segregated group on it. There were the black girls who jumped rope like it was goin’ out of style. There were the white girls who had to bow to that Goddess of Jumping, the master of the black girls. Everybody was into it funny. I didn’t cause any of the “events” that happened there, I just entered each girl section of the segregated girls playground, interviewing every one of them like I was Alex Hailey or something, the ghost writer who helped Malcolm X write his book.

I will never make it that far in life…

I even got my damn African glasses knocked off when I tried to go to the boy’s playground and interview them. They had a non-racist playground going. We had a racist, tallist, shortest, Jewest, Christian, fat girl segregated playground going, and somehow, if it meant something to us that we were evil incarnate, that worked for everyone else but me. Me? Nuh uh.

No fat girl section on the playground. All the girls were getting ready for an unknown zone called Basic Training for Viet Nam, I guess. They had to keep their figures.

I had to go to each segregated section of the playground, interviewing every evil loser queen on it, because the black girls were winning on our Negativity Playground.

As I went through life, I became the heroic Lost Girl Journalist in it. Yeah, there is now Jeanne Emerson, is there not? I was never able to become a tall white male journalist.

First I saw the black girl section, three black girls there, saw them skippin’ rope like sixty double dutch, and said to myself, “I can’t do that, what’s up with that? I know what. There’s a section of the playground I can play in.” I did a limp wrist at them and said aloud, “Ah, tha’s jus’ them,” and moved on to the white girls who were skipping rope. They hated me completely becuase they had forgotten what they were doing while being forced into doing it.

It wasn’t even double dutch, and I still couldn’t handle it. I jumped a teeny bit, and moved on. For I was the fat girl, I was ALWAYS new there, and there was no such fat girl section on the playground. But as I moved on, I headed towards the boy’s section of the playground, and as I walked toward it, thinking they wouldn’t mind, a white boy with black hair saw me, and threw the ball as hard as he possibly could.

It was a basketball and it zoomed straight into my face and knocked off my glasses because it didn’t hit very hard after all. I started to cry, contained myself, and picked up my glasses. There was no glasses section on the playground. I put my glasses back on and continued, as my part Indian self and part black self woke up, and knew it wasn’t Jesus Christ the Lord. I sighed. I would tell them something, somehow, but I didn’t know what. Some say I never did.

I moved on. Eventually there was the tall girl section of the playground. As I had previously exhibited courage, they let me in. Probably the tall Catholic girls. Dunno. They let me in conditionally, conditionally to what, I do not know. When I admitted I favored Indians, especially Indian chiefs, they kicked me out.

Wow. I next move on to the segregated Jewish and Christian or mostly Jewish or whatever section it was, cottoned to it being the Jewish section right away, you know Christians, they read both books…I hung out with them for this:

Miss Lucy had a steamboat
The steamboat had a bell
Miss Lucy went to heaven
The steamboat went to hello
Operator, give me number nine
And if you disconnect me
I’ll kick you in the behind
The refrigerator
There was a piece of glass
Miss Lucy sat upon it
And broke her little ask me
No more questions
I’ll tell you no more lies…

So I added the last line, already, already. Which was the boys are in the —-room
Making chocolate pies.

About the Author

Executive Director and President of Rainbow Writing, Inc., Karen Cole writes. RWI at http://www.rainbowriting.com is a renowned inexpensive and affordable professional freelance writers, book authors, ghost writers, copy editors, proof readers, coauthors, manuscript rewriters, graphics and CAD, digital and other photographers, publishing assistance and screenplay writers, editors, developers and analysts service.

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