Black Lives Do Matter

I grew up in an all-white neighborhood where I attended an all-white elementary school. Back then I only knew one black person, Rose, our maid who worked for us twice a week. One day to clean and one day to do laundry. She would iron downstairs in our knotty pine walled basement, and I always looked forward to laundry day. I can close my eyes and smell the steamy aroma coming from hot iron on freshly washed clothes; hear the beat of gospel music on the radio and feel the joy I felt when I was with her. 70+ years later I may not remember her face, but I still remember how she made me feel. Loved.

When I was perhaps 6 or 7, my family drove from New Jersey to Miami Beach, FL for a special Easter vacation. The one memory of that trip that is seared in my brain took place at a restaurant stop in North Carolina. I needed to use the restroom, so I raced to the lady’s room. My mother, by my side, literally grabbed me by the shoulders and held me back. She bent down to my level and in a whisper pointed to the sign above the door that read COLORED ONLY. She then led me to the WHITE ONLY lady’s room and tried to explain why I wasn’t allowed to use the COLORED ONLY bathroom. As a child I couldn’t understand and as an adult I still can’t understand. At home we shared a bathroom with Rose, so why couldn’t we share one in this restaurant?  

This blog post makes me angry and very sad. It’s now 2026 and although things have improved, racism still exists.