If there were a biography about you, what would the title be?

Warning: use of the N word is used in context in this story.

I often wonder how I became the person I am.  I was born in 1950, a Baby Boomer, in the Deep South.  I was raised Southern Baptist by a very devout mother and a father who attended as often as his conscience prompted him.  The influence in our home was definitely ultra-conservative and racist. Everything was segregated.  Water fountains and business entrances were marked white and colored.  Should a black person come to our house, they knocked on the back door, 

I never knew a single black person by name till I met Rosie, a black lady who occasionally cleaned for Mother.  One day Rosie told me she had a little girl just my age, three years old,  I was enchanted, desperate to know more and perhaps play with her little girl.

Innocently, I blurted out, “Is she a nigger?” As young as I was, the hurt look on Rosie’s face showed me I’d said something horrible.

Kindly but firmly, she corrected me. “She’s the same color as me but it’s wrong to say nigger. Say colored.” Rosie was as kind as ever afterward. I was so glad she didn’t stay mad.

Not too long afterward, Rosie had no one to keep Cynthia, so she had to bring her along. I was ecstatic to get to play with her all day. I couldn’t wait to share news of my new friend the second Daddy walked in the door. Rosie had crossed the line. I never saw her or sweet little Cynthia again.

I pray we never go back to that hate-filled time.