They say your first time is memorable.
Do you remember it? Do you remember how old you were and the setting in which it happened? How did you feel after? Who did you want to tell or not tell? My first time was in a church. I was probably no more than seven or eight years old. I remember feeling strange but I also remember not wanting to tell anyone about it so I evidently felt some sense of shame as well. I knew something significant had occurred but I wasn’t able to process what had happened. I didn’t really understand that when that little boy shouted “get behind me, little black girl”, I had just experienced interpersonal racism for the first time.
But I’m starting at the end. I suppose the beginning is Vacation Bible School.
Vacation Bible School, or VBS, is pretty much a variation on a theme each year and at each location. For a week or two during the summer, local churches provide a place for parents to drop off their children for half a day Monday through Friday. The kids are promised fun, food, fellowship, and of course - as the name implies, a healthy dose of Jesus. The parents are promised a week of free childcare. It’s basically Sunday school but more fun and on weekdays. My mom took my siblings and me to VBS at one church or another for several years and we always enjoyed it.
This particular year, when I was around 7 or 8 years old, we were going to the local Methodist church (never mind that we were tongue-talking Pentecostals). After all, VBS doesn’t discriminate on the basis of whether or not you tend to run laps around the church and attend all-night prayer meetings on your own time. All are welcome; in fact, I’m pretty sure there were plenty of non-religious parents that still embraced the opportunity to divest themselves of their offspring for a few hours every day.
VBS was fun! We typically started the day as one large group with all the grades assembled in the church auditorium. We would work on a group of songs that would be performed for our parents at the end of the week and then we’d be split into smaller groups by age/grade where we would engage in activities for the next few hours. Even as an introvert, I always looked forward to the interesting lessons, the fun crafts, the little snack mixes with cheesy pretzels, and playing ‘red rover, red rover’ on the church lawn every day.
One day, as we prepared to leave the auditorium, I jumped to my feet, excited to head to the classroom. One by one, the other kids in my class filed out from between the wooden pews in a straight line. As I moved to follow the person in front of me, a small arm reaches forward to prevent me from moving. Confused, I looked around to see a small white boy with a mop of unkempt brown hair staring at me with a displeased look on his face. “Get behind me, little black girl!” He issued the order while sidling past me to take my place in the line as we exited the auditorium. An array of internal reactions were set off as I mentally struggled with a response.
I was surprised and confused. Why would he do that? Why would he say that?
My confusion morphed into anger. That was rude! That was wrong.
Then my anger melted into shame. The moment has passed. I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. I guess I shouldn’t say anything at all.
That was twenty years ago. I’m saying something now. Reflecting on this incident, I remember that little boy talking to me with such boldness. With no shame. In that brief interaction, he spoke volumes about his perceived place in the world and mine. At the time I must have thought I was reading too much into it. After all, he could have simply been as eager as I was to get to the cheesy pretzels. All children can be rude sometimes, right? I wish I could accept that explanation. But I’ve grown too much and come too far. In one simple sentence, that boy showed how much he had absorbed about our social order.
"get behind me, little black girl"
His words conveyed that my race and gender (unsurprising how racial prejudice is paired with misogyny) placed me lower than himself in the pecking order; made me less worthy of whatever perceived benefits there were from being further up in that line.
Do I hold a grudge against an elementary-school-aged boy whose name I can’t even remember? Of course not. Because at the end of the day, what left the strongest impression on me wasn’t even the words that he said. It was how he said them. His self-assuredness chipped away at my own sense of security. His boldness made me feel intimidated. His aggression made me retreat. My grudge is against the cultivation of an environment where different versions of this scene continue to play out day after day after day in schools, in hospitals, in offices, and yes, even in churches.
I wonder what kind of man that boy has grown into? I wonder what he believes about what he is entitled to because of his gender and the color of his skin. I wonder if that day at Vacation Bible School was memorable for him at all.
I think not. I think, perhaps, that was not his first time.