Lessons in Black & White
We were second graders when Darlene disobeyed her parents with a friendly “Ash Street” wave to me.
During the late 1950s, Black families and white families both lived on West Ash Street in Columbia, Missouri. I know this because that’s where our parents purchased a two-story house. Our Ash Street house had room for play, a giant garden and an adjoining empty lot filled with pear, peach and cherry trees.
Mom and Dad faced big challenges. Segregation for one thing. Black families could only buy or rent homes on the north side of Ash Street. On the southern side, houses were reserved for white families. Unfortunately, the town’s nod to white supremacy didn’t stop there.
The neighborhood school was named to honor a Union general from the Civil War. But during our first year on Ash Street, the Ulysses S. Grant Elementary School maintained racial segregation with a “white only” attendance policy.
Except for my sibs, plus Margaret and A.G. (fellow north-side kids), the block’s only other grade-school child lived directly across the street from our front porch.
Darlene was exactly my age and the only child at home with her older white parents living in a bright yellow single-story house. I never saw her with siblings or playmates. And I mostly recall Darlene wearing stiffly-pressed dresses while sitting on her front porch swing. Sometimes she sat for hours watching us play, until her mother called her in for meals.
Of course, neither Darlene nor I were old enough to understand the north and south side of the street stuff or the racial elements defining why we were each missing out on what seemed for both of us as a perfect playmate.
When my parents tried to ignore my early queries, I eventually stopped asking why Darlene was not allowed to play with us. Soon I just took the arrangement for granted-- playing with my friends and siblings on our side of the street while the little girl with long blond hair sat alone.
Sometimes, my sibs, friends and I initiated across-the-street waves. But Darlene only responded once. And I still vividly remember that spring afternoon. Walking our new cocker spaniel along the sidewalk, Darlene looked up. And after taking a long deep breath, she waved. We both smiled.
Then she turned and quickly ran inside.
A year later, when Grant School integrated, Darlene and I were in the same second-grade classroom when she began to express herself more freely than Ash Street allowed.
Darlene and I enjoyed school birthday cupcake parties and giggled together at the cafeteria lunch table when the two of us discovered a shared passion for peanut butter cookies topped with criss-cross fork prints.
Still, the clouds from her parent’s neighborhood rules regulated our time together, preventing us from developing a real friendship.
My family moved away from Ash Street to integrate a neighborhood of newer homes before Darlene’s and my 8th grade year. And Darlene and I rarely saw each other at Hickman High School. Soon after graduation, I heard that following her father’s death, she and her mother had moved away from Ash Street. In the years that followed with colleges, marriages and my cross-country moves, I lost track of Darlene.
Decades later, when we ran into each other in the supermarket parking lot near my parent’s home, the quick catch-up included a giggle over our still-strong craving for peanut butter cookies.
There we were cart to cart, chatting about former classmates, when Darlene paused, leaned forward and took one of her dramatic deep breaths. “I'm sorry we couldn't be friends when we lived across the street from each other,” she said.
“I second that,“ I answered, taking note of her expression, which I would later describe in my journal as “a mixture of concern, respect and kindness.”
“My dad was very stubborn. And he came from a different world. I've finally forgiven him, I hope you can forgive my parents and me too,” Darlene said.
I nodded yes, recalling how my parents had guided my sibs and me during many of our Civil Rights movement challenges. During those years, Mom and Dad pointed to Ash Street as an example of how people who believe in white superiority suffer much more than those of us on the receiving end of racist words or actions. “Our big yard was always full of laughter,” I remember one or both of them reminding us many times.
That day in the parking lot, when I hugged Darlene goodbye with the feeling that our healing had begun, I didn’t know it would be our last time together.
Today, these memories makes me pause to consider the friendships and opportunities all of us miss each time we let fearful thoughts continue without taking one of Darlene’s cleansing breaths.
Imagine the kind of world we would provide generations following ours by fine-tuning the parts of our lives where we hold intolerances.
I work on this daily. And now whenever my memory drifts to the lonely little girl who wasn't allowed to play with me on Ash Street, I remember most her sincere second-grade expression of kindness and respect on that day she found the courage to wave.
To honor her memory, I still celebrate the day she was born: April 23rd. This year, I made our favorite peanut butter cookies.
Mrs A. Mae Scott Peanut Butter Cookies from A Date with A Dish by Freda DeKnight, (1948) 1 stick (1/2 cup) butter 1/2 cup peanut butter 1/2 cup granulated sugar 1 egg, well beaten 1 3/4 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1/2 teaspoon baking soda 1/4 teaspoon salt
Cream butter and peanut butter. Add sugar gradually and cream thoroughly. Add well-beaten egg. Stir together flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Add to dough, stirring just until blended. Chill dough at least three hours.
Heat oven to 375 degrees. Form dough into small balls. Place on well-greased baking sheet. Flatten dough balls in criss-cross with a fork dipped in flour. Bake until cookies are light brown, about 10 to 20 minutes. Remove from oven. Cool on pan 1 minute. Transfer cookies to a wire rack. Cool completely. Makes about 3 1/2 dozen.
Sources and notes:
A Date With A Dish by Freda DeKnight (Hermitage Press, 1948) p.26
Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Daniel Tatum, Ph.D. (Basic Books, Perseus Book Group, 1997)
Darlene Sutton obituary, Columbia Daily Tribune, Jun 26, 2008 • Page 13
Thank you, Donna! This story brought tears to my eyes, knowing I had the same experience as Darlene, missing out on so many potential African American friends in my childhood. I didn't make my first Black friend until I taught in a segregated high school in Montgomery, Alabama. I realized that year (1963) that my hometown of Kansas City, MO was just as racist as Montgomery but without the signs and visible cops, dogs and firehoses. Without the Alabama children jailed, their photos in the news. But just as segregated, just as racist. You write with such tenderness and compassion. Thanks also for our mutual friend Lea who introduced me to your writing.
I remember those days well including you and Carolyn showing up at Grant School. Our principal, Paul Fleeman, came to the classrooms and gave a speech basically saying. We’re going to have Negro children in our school. I don’t want any trouble and you’re going to like them. I think most of us did. FYI I only remember Debbie Patterson in the photo.