Growing up in a red-neck town, hearing the occasional gun shot was a common occurrence. We just didn't bat an eye.
At least that was the way it was before that night. The dreaded night of the cross burning.
When I was young child, in a predominately
(more) white school, a sweet young girl and her family moved into our town. The first time I saw her was when the teacher introduced her to the class. Her name was Latashia. She seemed very shy. I made it my personal goal to draw her out. That is the way I was around the shy kids. I took it upon myself to show Latashia around and introduce her to other children during recess. We became fast friends.
Not long before I met Latashia, there was a family of the same race that had moved into and quickly out of my neighborhood. I didn't understand why they left until the "dreaded day".
"POP! POP! POP!" with loud whooping and hollering.
It woke my family from sleep.
We dismissed it as some idiot red-neck drunk firing off his pistol and went back to bed.
The next day at school out teacher told us that Latashia will not be back at school. I recall the teacher looking angry. "A cross was burned in her yard and out fear her family has decided to move away from 'our' town."
The teacher opened the class up to any questions we might have. I was one of the first to ask one.
I asked, "Why?"
Her answer made no sense. She went on and on about racism and ignorance and white and black and hate and...
I raised my hand again, "But...why?"
"I don't know." She answered
When I grew up, I moved away from "their" town.
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