At the age of 6, in 1969, I got a powerful lesson about injustice in the kitchen of our New Orleans home. I was looking forward to my birthday party, to which all 56 or so of my classmates at Sacred Heart were invited for cake and ice cream at Monkey Hill in Audubon Park -- a coveted spot, being the highest point in a city that is mostly below sea level. The night before the Saturday party, the telephone rang and my mother picked up the pale yellow receiver of the kitchen wall phone; my ears perked up, as it was a mother of one of my classmates calling. I was sitting in the den, where I could hear the conversation as well as if I were on the phone; then, the long cord stretched far to the other side of the kitchen, as my mother attempted to shelter me from the remainder of the conversation. Not happening: as she walked away, I followed closer behind. The caller asked, "Are all the girls attending the party?" My mother replied, "But, of course!" I could not hear the rest, except for my mother saying, "Well, I am sorry we will not see your child at the party." Then, three more calls came in one after the other, from other mothers with the same question. Finally, on the last call, my mother had enough. Her voice rose higher than usual as she declared that she would never exclude a child from her daughter's birthday party because of the color of her skin - all the children are welcome. “You call yourself a good Catholic? It will be your child missing out on the gathering,” she told the caller.. My mother knew it would be hard for me, at the age of 6, to understand what had transpired, as that kind of attitude was simply not a part of our household. My mother believed in people as individuals and respected them. My mother assured me that my classmates were like my sisters and that I must not to break that bond or judge because of size, shape, or color. My mother did not bow down to the pressures of racism and stood strong for all to be treated fairly and as equals. My mother used her voice, and her example helped me to find my own.

Those four girls did end up attending the party, after all, though my mother never spoke to those women again. Nor was I allowed to play at their houses. My mother may not have changed the minds of the parents, but she certainly made them think. More importantly, she made a positive impact in the lives of all of us gals in that kindergarten class.

Protesting in Washington, DC [June 6, 2020]