Millie’s memories continue
Several days later as I walked
down the hall with my lunch bag I saw Robbie.
“Hi, where are you headed?” I asked him.
“Just going out to sit and have
lunch under the maple tree by the swings.”
“Could I come out with you?” A look of surprise came across Robbie’s face—which
probably matched the shock I felt at my own boldness.
“Sure, if you want to.” I followed him out. The grade school students were already back
in their classrooms, and the junior high and high school kids usually didn’t
come to this part of the school yard. I
felt less conspicuous. Even in the
North—which prided itself on being more progressive than the South, a Negro boy and a white girl sitting together was not accepted.
“Momma really liked your gift,”
Robbie said as we sat down.
An uncomfortable silence
followed. “Millie, why did you want to
come out and sit with me?”
“I don’t know, Robbie. I like you.
Is it OK to like you?”
“Yeah, I guess so, but I’ve never
had a white girl want to have lunch with me.
Did your friends put you up to this?”
I instantly felt hurt.
“Robbie, I’m really sorry if it
bothers you to eat with a white girl. I
want to be your friend. I think you’re
nice. I don’t have any motive—at least I
don’t think so.” I picked up my lunch
sack and walked back into the building.
For several days I felt awful. I got in a fight with my best
friend Rita. I didn’t want to talk to
anyone. Our little town was as redneck
as most other small towns. No one would
understand why I’d want to be friends with a Negro.
About a week after the lunch time
incident, I was practicing a twirling routine with the other majorettes while
the band practiced. When we finished I
ran into the room across the hall to grab my books and head home. A pink rose lay on top of my notebook with an
envelope tucked inside. At first I
thought I must have grabbed the wrong books.
When I saw the name Millie on the front of the envelope, I opened it immediately.
Millie,
I am sorry I was rude. I would like to be your friend. Robbie.
I felt a constriction in my
throat. I felt light-headed. I sat down and looked at the note
again. And the rose—a pink rose! I quickly put the note back in the book and
hid the rose from sight as I walked out of the building to hurry home to the
privacy of my bedroom.
“Millie, where’d you get the
flower? I hope you didn’t take it out of
Mrs. Ryan’s rose garden!” My mother was
always suspicious of my stealing flowers—we didn’t grow any and I loved having
fresh flowers in the house.
“No, Mom, a friend gave it to
me. I’m going to put it in a vase in my
room.” I opened the note once
again. My heart still pounded when I saw
his handwriting. Nice--not
the scrawling of most of the boys in my class.
On the last day of school I saw
Robbie leaving the building. “Thank
you so much for the rose and note. I’m
so sorry about the other day. I was
confused and I don’t always make myself very clear.”
“Millie, you were fine. I’ve never had a white girl want to talk to
me. I’m really sorry
if I hurt you.” People began
congregating so we said good bye. I
hoped that I wouldn’t have to wait until fall to see him again. My father would have a fit if he knew that I
even talked with a Negro. Several months
before I’d had a crush on a boy. He had
beautiful olive skin. My dad got furious when I
visited him in the hospital after he’d broken his leg in a car accident. I didn’t even want to think about what Dad
would do if he knew I was friends with a Negro!
To Be Continued...
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