"I have a dream that one day, little black boys and girls will be holding hands with little white boys and girls." That's what Mr. King said on the television screen today. He said a lot of stuff I don't understand yet. Momma says I'll understand when I'm older.
"Why does he dream about hand-holdin, Ma?"
"I told you that you'll understand in a little while. Just be patient" she said from the kitchen.
"Will I ever understand?" I say without any answer from her.
Grown-ups are weird. If I wanna hold a white girl's hand, then I'll hold a white girl's hand. I don't wanna hold a white boy's or even a black boy's for that matter. I don't even hold my brothers' hands. All boys have dirt on 'em. They're nasty.
But holding a white girl's hand? I've done it before. My best white friend Kayla and I used to hold hands at the park all the time, at least until her father came with white po-po's and tore her away from me. I haven't seen her since. But I'm sure she would still hold my hand after all these years because we promised to be friends forever.
I turned the television off and started walking towards my bedroom. I stopped to see what my brothers were doing. One, James, was doing sit-ups on the floor (probably exercising to get strong and impress all the girls at the schoolyard). The other, Jamal, sat reading a book on the bed.
"What's up lil' kid?" Jamal asked me.
"Mr. King's speech about equality and holding boys' hands or something like that. You know what he talkin' about?" I say.
At the exact same time, the twins laugh and say, "You don't worry now", and James completed the thought saying, "If King gets his wish, you'll see soon enough".
With that, I went to my room. I can understand a grown-up telling me I have to grow up to know about stuff, but why would my brothers tell me the same thing a different kind of way? My brothers are weird too, just like Ma.
I lay down on my bed and begin to think.
If Mr. King gets his wish like James says, I wonder if it will be a good thing. I'll hold hands with a white boy if that's a good thing. Maybe Kayla will be holding my other hand. That's what he dreamt about, right?
Mr. King seems like a smart man. He has to be smart since he was on the television. There are only three reasons for black people to be on the television screen. Either they're protestin', singin', or they're somebody special. He must be somebody special. Somebody worth hearing out what they got to say. Somebody who wants to make a change in his life and mine.
I start putting more and more pieces together, and then I hear the front door open. Before it even has a chance to close, I run past my own threshold, past my brothers' bedroom door, past the television screen, past the kitchen where Ma was finishing dinner, and into my papa's arms where he picks me up and gives me a kiss.
"Hey, Stank!" which is his embarrassing nickname for me that I still love so dear. Got the name from my stinky diapers when I was a baby, I guess.
"Hey, dad!" I say with the biggest smile.
Ma yells from the kitchen, "Babe, stop calling her that. It's such an embarrassing name!"
Dad and I laugh and sit down at the dinner table. I cut to the chase and ask, "If Martin Luther King Jr.'s dream for black kids and white kids to hold hands comes true, will that be good?"
Dad, stunned, chuckles and jokes, "Yeah, I suppose. It just depends on whether or not the white kids' parents gon' letchu' anywhere near 'em!"
I laugh at his funny remark, and take what I can from it.
His comment haunted me that night. I couldn't shake it out of my head. I tried to fall asleep, but each time I did, I had a nightmare about Kayla's dad ripping her away and never letting me see her again.
It was after that night that I realized why Kayla was taken from me, why black people and even some white people were protesting endlessly, why grown-ups kept telling me to wait to understand our world better, and why Mr. King spoke what he spoke that day: There was a distinction between people, black people and white people, and equality was what we had to demand for a change.
Having been so naïve the day before, I never would have understood. I thought as every child thought. "All I see is another playmate, not a black person or a white person. All I see is someone who likes the same food as I, not someone with thinner or thicker hair than mine. All I see is a friend, not a boy or girl who gets snatched away from me for befriending someone with a skin tone blacker than black itself".
But everyone is born the same. We may not be the same color, but we are born equal, whether a white person thinks black people are not real human beings or a black person believes white people are superior. No one is racist until someone points out the other race's differences or until a child is told not to hang around 'those people'.
When I got out of bed that morning, I ran straight to my papa and hugged him tight and said "Thank you". He asked me why I said what I said, and I exclaimed, "I'm thanking you for making me think. I understand Mr. King now, even though I still have yet to grow."
He said, "Well, is that right?" and hugged me tighter.
Ma looked at me sideways and asked, "Well what exactly can a young'n understand?"
I said," You'll understand when you're older, Ma."
