Can I Play With You? By Kaysheri Haffner
The worst part about growing up is realizing how cruel people can be. Children in particular can be especially ruthless. There is a certain brutality when a child says something hateful. They hold no reservations and speak whatever venom their parents hide behind closed doors. All thought is learned, and children observe and repeat without understanding—until they believe what they unknowingly speak. When you experience this as a child yourself, it often does not occur to you until years down the line how wicked those words were.
For when you ask, “Can I play with you?”
On a playground of your kindergarten class, joyful shouts and laughter ringing through the air. You can feel the warm sun on your skin and the fresh breeze kissing your round, sweaty face.
You hardly know what game is being played, all you understand is that they are smiling so they must be having fun. You smile in return, making to show all of your gap-toothed grin. You are oblivious to the smiles of your playmates slipping off their faces and melting into pouts, much like ice cream on a too hot day.
“No!” is the first thing said.
“My mommy says you can’t,” one responds.
“My daddy doesn’t want me playing with a brown person,” another chimes in, “He says it’s bad.”
And in your mind, you understand they are telling you not to play with them, but it escapes you as to why. What is a brown person and why must they not play? Why are they bad? Bad is bad, and you must not be bad.
“Why?” Is all you know to ask, for that has always been the answer to your questions.
“My mommy says it’s because you shouldn’t be here and we shouldn’t mix.”
“We’ll get in trouble.”
“Because you’re ugly.”
“Because you’re weird.”
“Because you’re bad.”
“You can’t play with us!” They all exclaim.
As they turn away and run off, you experience one of the worst things a person can feel. You do not yet know what to call it, but grownups would say it’s rejection. They leave you alone, and you walk to the bench under the tree to sit alone, and you spend the rest of that warm sunny recess alone.
The wood chips crunch under your shoes as you walk back inside the school. The concrete creates hazy figures ahead of you when you walk home from school.
And your mother is heartbroken when you tell her about your day. You cannot tell by looking at her, but your bones feel nauseous as you speak and you cannot escape the feeling that you did something wrong. Suddenly even the warm sun cannot stop you from quivering. She says and reveals nothing at first. She gently guides you to the couch and explains.
She talks of race and skin and prejudice and judgment. She uses words that you don’t quite understand and talks of things that make no sense.
“We’re brown,” she says.
“But what does that mean?” You ask, desperate for someone to answer your question.
“It means a lot of things, honey. But most of all it means that a lot of people think we’re different and they’ll treat us differently because of it.”
“How are we different mommy? Why does brown make me different from the other kids? Why do their parents say we I can’t play with them?”
Your mother sighs and you can see her eyes are sad even if her face reveals nothing.
“I don’t really know, honey, it just does. It’s called racism and it’s very bad. None of this is your fault; there is nothing wrong with you. Those kids were told to say these things by their parents, and they learned this hate from their parents. Racism is when people are mean to someone else because of the color of their skin. They mistreat other people because, in a lot of cases, they think the color of their skin is better than the other person’s.
“But it doesn’t matter what they think, you are perfect just the way you are. Those kids are being mean because they are taught to hate just as much as you are taught to love. Never stop loving and showing kindness even if people are mean to you. Hate breeds hate, and you must not let it consume you.”
You nod with wide eyes. You don’t understand, not really. Not until now.
Now you look back and see all the small comments you didn’t notice before. Now you look around you and see the hate in some of their gazes. Now you understand their wicked cruelty.
As much as you wish to go back to that warm playground with the fresh breeze and your wide, gap-toothed grin, you can only move forward.
For when you ask, “Can I play with you?”
On a playground of your kindergarten class, joyful shouts and laughter ringing through the air. You can feel the warm sun on your skin and the fresh breeze kissing your round, sweaty face.
You hardly know what game is being played, all you understand is that they are smiling so they must be having fun. You smile in return, making to show all of your gap-toothed grin. You are oblivious to the smiles of your playmates slipping off their faces and melting into pouts, much like ice cream on a too hot day.
“No!” is the first thing said.
“My mommy says you can’t,” one responds.
“My daddy doesn’t want me playing with a brown person,” another chimes in, “He says it’s bad.”
And in your mind, you understand they are telling you not to play with them, but it escapes you as to why. What is a brown person and why must they not play? Why are they bad? Bad is bad, and you must not be bad.
“Why?” Is all you know to ask, for that has always been the answer to your questions.
“My mommy says it’s because you shouldn’t be here and we shouldn’t mix.”
“We’ll get in trouble.”
“Because you’re ugly.”
“Because you’re weird.”
“Because you’re bad.”
“You can’t play with us!” They all exclaim.
As they turn away and run off, you experience one of the worst things a person can feel. You do not yet know what to call it, but grownups would say it’s rejection. They leave you alone, and you walk to the bench under the tree to sit alone, and you spend the rest of that warm sunny recess alone.
The wood chips crunch under your shoes as you walk back inside the school. The concrete creates hazy figures ahead of you when you walk home from school.
And your mother is heartbroken when you tell her about your day. You cannot tell by looking at her, but your bones feel nauseous as you speak and you cannot escape the feeling that you did something wrong. Suddenly even the warm sun cannot stop you from quivering. She says and reveals nothing at first. She gently guides you to the couch and explains.
She talks of race and skin and prejudice and judgment. She uses words that you don’t quite understand and talks of things that make no sense.
“We’re brown,” she says.
“But what does that mean?” You ask, desperate for someone to answer your question.
“It means a lot of things, honey. But most of all it means that a lot of people think we’re different and they’ll treat us differently because of it.”
“How are we different mommy? Why does brown make me different from the other kids? Why do their parents say we I can’t play with them?”
Your mother sighs and you can see her eyes are sad even if her face reveals nothing.
“I don’t really know, honey, it just does. It’s called racism and it’s very bad. None of this is your fault; there is nothing wrong with you. Those kids were told to say these things by their parents, and they learned this hate from their parents. Racism is when people are mean to someone else because of the color of their skin. They mistreat other people because, in a lot of cases, they think the color of their skin is better than the other person’s.
“But it doesn’t matter what they think, you are perfect just the way you are. Those kids are being mean because they are taught to hate just as much as you are taught to love. Never stop loving and showing kindness even if people are mean to you. Hate breeds hate, and you must not let it consume you.”
You nod with wide eyes. You don’t understand, not really. Not until now.
Now you look back and see all the small comments you didn’t notice before. Now you look around you and see the hate in some of their gazes. Now you understand their wicked cruelty.
As much as you wish to go back to that warm playground with the fresh breeze and your wide, gap-toothed grin, you can only move forward.