The last sentence of my recent blog was, “Who knows, maybe the digital divide begins with us?” I was determined to find a story about the Internet bringing people together, so I’ve decided to share my own.
I was inspired to leave my comfort zone by my five-year-old daughter.
My middle child, who is the only girl, made a friend she loves with such intensity it reminded me how I felt about my childhood friends. My daughter’s friendship crosses racial lines, which is unremarkable in the age of Obama.
Watching her made me realize that my friendships at that age hadn’t crossed a racial line, but a racial divide, because it was a different time and a different place.
My parents integrated a bedroom town north of Boston in 1971. To give you some context, forced bussing and race rebellions were the backdrop of my formative years. Because of my dad’s career, we moved away in 1977.When I tell people now that even though we were one of the only Black families in town, those were some of the best years of my life, many of my Minnesota friends respond with disbelief. My family moved to this racially segregated space in Massachusetts, three years after King was killed during the height of Black Power.
I was curious to see if my childhood memories had been “true.” Once I digitally re-connected with my friends (whom I had not seen in 32 years), I decided to fly to Boston.
Last weekend, I spent one day with my two closest playmates.
They were still best friends and I conspired with one to surprise the other. Once we had connected, settled from the shock and told stories about our grown up lives, we had a “real” conversation.
We reflected on how we were too young to understand at the time what a big deal it was that my family lived there. I told them I had no memories of racial trauma, and my Minnesota friends now wondered if I was being overly nostalgic.
One friend remembered that her older brother had called me “brownie” once. Her mother started yelling at him, only to look out the window to see that I was wearing my Brownie Girl Scout uniform.
My other friend’s aunt remembered that she wanted the family to “look at me.” They were afraid that she would say something awkward about my skin or hair, but in true childhood delight, she couldn’t believe we had the same sneakers.
My one-day visit made me realize that post racial blogging only happens with post racial living. As I walked the old neighborhood I learned that another playmate still lived there. I knocked on her door and we recognized each other from Facebook.
She told me that she liked visiting my page because my friends were so “smart” and lived all over the country. I was slightly embarrassed because I realized that my inner circle consists of the few Black academics who hang out on www.theroot.com.
I realized then that my life is no less parochial than my friend who lives three doors from where her parents still live. I had also gravitated toward what was familiar and had stayed with it.
Crossing the digital and racial divide really begins with us. I have Facebook “friended” and in real life befriended the mom of my daughter’s best friend. At first glance, we couldn’t be more different, but my friends in Massachusetts reminded me that what brings kids and moms together during kindergarten can last a lifetime.
People say you can never go home again. Last week, I did, even if it was only for a day. To paraphrase the writer in the movie, “Stand by Me,” “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was eight. Jesus, does anybody?”
