Final memories of their friendship…
I believe the first time I knew how
different Robbie was from other boys was when I put my hand down on the grass
next to a tombstone and laid it flat on a bumblebee. I winced in pain from the sting and he
grabbed my hand, pulled the stinger out and sucked on the puncture to get the
poison out. His tenderness was something
I’d never experienced from my father--and certainly not from boys at school.
Our meetings were always beyond the
eyes of others—usually picnics, and most often at Morgantown Cemetery. Though our relationship never became physical,
we grew extremely close over the summer months.
It was August of that summer—a hot
day with humidity nearly equal to temperature.
We were chatting about some of the injustices that Negroes had to live
through. Robbie had learned about life
for the Negroes in the South from his father who worked the cotton fields. I had questions, always lots of
questions. On that particular day,
Robbie had been telling me about a letter he and his mother had received from
his father. He spoke about the violence
taking place on a daily basis in many of the Southern towns and cities. Without fully understanding why, tears
rolled down my cheeks as he talked. I
was beginning to understand Robbie’s pain just because of his skin color.
Robbie looked over and saw my
tears. He took his napkin and wiped my
cheeks and then put his hand under my chin and drew my face to his. He lightly kissed me my cheek—tenderly, as
if we were at that moment sharing the same pain.
From that time on I knew
instinctively that I could trust Robbie with anything. I began telling him about the anger that my
dad held so closely to the surface—and much of it directed at me. With all the pain Robbie had experienced from
the outside, his family was very close.
Robbie’s willingness to listen to my hurt helped me know that
not all men are hostile.
When school began that fall, we
were in 9th and 10th grades. Busier, with more studies and our activities,
Robbie and I saw little of each other. A
couple of times before cold weather set in, we met at the cemetery. A few times we were able to pass notes at school, but
we knew it would not be understood if people found out.
I maintained friendships with my
girlfriends, but they were somehow different—childish, our talks had no
substance. I continued as a majorette
and marched and twirled when basketball season began. Robbie was often high pointer at the games.
In March of 1957, my parents began
discussing a move to Oregon. Mother had a cousin living in southern Oregon who assured my
parents that jobs could be had. Mother
and Dad’s marriage had been in trouble since before I was born, and they
rationalized that this change might be good for them. I knew Mother just wanted to be closer to her
family.
I didn’t want to leave my
friends. I was a majorette. I’d be a nobody
in a new town. Most important, of
course, what would I do without my friendship with Robbie? I had no one else to talk to. And talk I did.
On one hand he was excited for me—a town of 15,000 sounded pretty neat compared to New Castle at 800. Though only a year older than me, he had the
ability to see things more realistically.
Every so often, the thought of future
possibilities for our relationship crept into my mind. If I even hinted at this in our conversations,
Robbie set me straight right away.
“Millie, now you know that you are white and I am black and nothing is
going to change that!” Yet I knew he,
too, valued our friendship.
The last time we met at Morgantown Cemetery, I fixed a special
picnic. Robbie and I sat talking and
trying to be cheerful. He teased me
about all the new boyfriends I’d have to choose from. Other than Mother’s cousin, we knew no one
else who lived in the whole state of Oregon. I felt more than a little overwhelmed.
I looked at my watch. “Robbie, I’m sorry but I have to get home.”
“Wait just a minute. I have something to give you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box. “I couldn’t wrap it,
but you can pretend it has pink flowered paper on it.”
I smiled. Robbie knew how much I liked flowers. I opened the box and stared in
disbelief. “Robbie, it’s beautiful!” A gold bracelet lay on white
satin—flowers in a filigree design with scalloped edging on a one inch
band. “I’ll treasure it always!” I took the gold bracelet from the box. I felt horrible that he’d spent so much money,
yet so touched that he wanted to give me such a lovely remembrance of our
friendship. I leaned over and kissed him
lightly on his cheek.
I had thought long and hard about
buying something for him. I reached into
my bag that contained the remnants of our lunch and pulled out a small package.
“I want to give you
something, too.” I handed it to him—a
key chain with two charms—a heart, and two holding hands. “Robbie, you have such a big heart, and I hope the hands will remind you of our
friendship.”
We hugged and I turned and walked over to the tree where my
bike stood. I couldn’t look back at
Robbie. It just hurt too much. I rode off with tears hitting my knees as I
peddled home.
To be continued…
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