“The girl with the brown skin. . .”
That’s how I described my third-grade best friend to my mom – before I knew about racism, before I knew about slavery. To me it was as simple as describing someone’s hair color. I loved my best friend, and I didn’t see her any different from myself. We played together every day at recess, and I even shared with her the secret of my crush from second grade. Continue reading Whose Lives REALLY MATTER?