When I Was Eight

My eight-year-old face

Smashed

Against the drinking fountain

At Saint Matthews Grammar school

When the bigger boy,

The older boy,

The tall blond white boy,

Shoved me

While I took

A drink of water.

“That’s fountain’s for white kids,”

He yelled and sneered.

“You’re a nigger.
And you can’t drink from there.”
“He ain’t no nigger.”

Another boy said,

“He’s a wetback .”

“He’s a wetback nigger.”

The blond boy said.

“Look at his big fat lips.

I bet he gets haircuts

To hide his curly hair.”

In 1957

I was new

To this nearly all white school,

New to this city,

And new to this state,
That I soon learned to hate.

Lucky for me

I was rescued by Sister Marie,

The school principal.

She called an assembly

Gathered the whole school.
She stood me in front

Of all the white children

And loudly declared,

“Every summer day

You all go out and lay

At the beach

To get a tan

As dark as you can.

You burn your skin.

It turns red and peels.

And you try again.”

Sister Marie

Took hold of me

And pulled up my arm

Exposing my dark tan skin.

“God gave this boy

A natural tan,

Darker than you ,
Darker than me

Ever can.
Do let me catch you

Teasing or hitting him

Or I will call your parents

And expel you from school.”

I thought Sister Marie

Was really cool.

But I was no fool.

I knew the white boys

Would find other ways

To be cruel.