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He was a small black boy. About nine years of age. I was the same age give or take a year, and we had both been brought to the train station. I can no longer remember where, but somewhere in the Deep South. It could have been Florida, or maybe Georgia. Nor do I know, if I ever knew, what part of the year it was, although it was very hot, and the caged metal fans that stood sweeping the room moved air so hot it hurt to have it blow on my skin. I was with the black woman who took care of me, a doctor’s son. Her name is lost to me now, and no one living can tell it to me. He was with his grandmother. I watched him walk across the tiles of the station as I sat in one of the worn wooden pews that lined the vaulted waiting room.
There were two drinking fountains jutting from the wall. One sign read “Whites Only.” I was a compulsive reader of signs, proud of my ability to do so. Like many signs, though, I am not sure I understood what it meant.
Publication History: Explore: The Journal of Science and Healing
November 2007 (Vol. 3, Issue 6, Pages 558-560)
