Two Words

I see them looking at me with sideways glances. Do they think I do not notice, can not feel their eyes? Everyday I endure quick, guilty peeks, from both young and old. The speed and slyness of their looks tells them that it is wrong, and yet, they continue. This one small difference, divides us. Rounding the corner the feelings begin to change. Slowly at first, I hold my head just a bit higher, my anxiety lessens, and I can breath again. Two more streets and a smile begins to form, not outwardly, but I feel it slowly happening inside. Another block or two and others can notice the change. We live in a divided world, separated by something so trivial, so insignificant, that I too am ashamed at my own actions. One street to go and I will again walk proudly, be able to stand tall and feel human again. Heading for home the weight has lifted, my friends and family greet me and a laugh escapes my lips. The heaviness is gone, and my embarrassment is left far behind. 1

Early the next morning while getting ready for work, I hear the sounds of my children laughing downstairs. I wonder what the future holds for them. Like all parents I want better for them than I had. I pray change is coming yet I have no idea how to speed it along. After breakfast I head out the door. The heaviness greets me only a block from home. It is Friday, I remind myself. I have only today to get through. Arriving at work I keep my head down. The factory noises help block any hope of conversation. Moving to the back of the building I meet up with my co-workers. We go about our tasks, there is no time for pleasantries, we have a deadline, and the job must come first. It is summertime, and the sweat pours off our bodies. Hour after hour, we load trucks with fifty pound bags of flour. Slinging the burlap sacks over my left shoulder I soon have a fine dusting covering my shirt. The work is demanding, hard on the back and legs but we push on. Times are hard, and I feel fortunate just being employed. When I think my shoulder cannot carry another sack, my feet cannot walk another step; relief comes in the form of the lunch whistle. 2

In the back parking lot, I find a shady spot under a twisted elm tree. The grass is cool here, I can feel it through the legs of my work pants. Working out a kink in my shoulder, two other workers join me. We do not speak; merely eat in silence, but the company helps my mood. The simple act of sharing lunch is enough for us, words are unnecessary. From the corner of my eye, I see a supervisor walking toward our little group. Searching my mind I match the face with the name, Manny. Slowly, walking up to us, he uses his hand to shield his eyes from the noonday sun. Walter? he asks. The worker sitting next me stands, brushes crumbs from his pants and waits. Few words are exchanged and Walter and Manny head off to the main building. None of my business I decide, and pack my trash in my lunch bag and head back to the dock just as the whistle blows. 3

The afternoon wears on, the back of my shirt is soaked and all I can think about is water. I have been loading flour for three straight hours without a break and my body’s needs are becoming more demanding. Stepping away from the loading dock, I scan the warehouse for a supervisor. The fountains are just a few feet away but I need permission to leave my spot on the dock. Catching his eye, I wave my hand toward then and with a quick nod of his head I am dismissed from his mind. Removing my gloves I walk to the back side of the warehouse. There are two fountains on the wall, different styles but the same height. I move to the one on the right. Not because the water in this one is colder. My fountain produces at best, tepid but in ninety degree heat it still feels good going down. I use the same one everyday, never venturing to the other on the left. Same water, but so different are these two fountains. The differences fill me with hurt and I suspect fill many other folks with shame. Wiping the water from my chin I look up. The sign above my head sickens me. It amazes me that one simple word can inflict so much hatred, pain, and injustice. Perhaps it isn’t just one word but two. Two words, refusing to live and work together causing all this pain and suffering. The other offending word hangs above the fountain on the left. Two small words with the power to divide a nation. One says Colored, the other says White. 4

Link to picture used as prompt for this story in the A/N. It's an amazing picture that hurt my heart. 5