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Goodbye, C.T. Back in 1998, when I was largely unaware of such things, I never was given the proper opportunity to say my farewell, nor would I have understood the pressing urgency of the moment.
Beyond any possibility of refute, the divisions existed then just as firmly as they do today. But they did not matter to us, we did not see or acknowledge them, and they did not create any artificial barriers that would have cast doubts on the sustainability of what we shared. We were friends, and that was all that mattered. We shared silly jokes during Social Studies class, ate lunch together, sat next to each other in the computer lab. You were not my best friend, but you were close it. My life was enriched by your presence, and you never once judged me as so many of the other kids did. You too, like me, only saw what drew us together, not what differentiated us.
How funny it is that they never once resonated to me, all of those subtle yet telling details. How you sometimes arrived to school late, clothes dirty, smelling as if you had not properly bathed that morning. How we spoke so differently, listened to different music and watched different television channels. How different our grades often were. Back then, those things were nothing more than inconsequential tidbits of information to my young mind, and certainly not attributes which would have in any manner elicited judgments on my part.
It was so hard for me to grasp at first, when you stopped arriving that next year. The tardiness abruptly became total absence. You had not moved; indeed, I frequently saw you on the street corner while driving by with my parents, surrounded by people with no good intentions, but I never raised my hand, never demanded to know what was going on. Eventually, my frivolous mind simply lost much of the interest that your absence had initially provoked. I had other closer friends, and the old adage of “out of sight, out of mind” began to hold true. You never returned, I never did get to say goodbye, but your name always lingered in the back of mind.
Twelve years later, I wonder what has become of you. What good can possibly befall the Black middle school dropout? Twelve years later, I can only use all of my power to fiercely condemn and attempt to ameliorate the system that failed you, that has failed so many and will undoubtedly continue to do so. Twelve years later, I still cannot help but smile and shake my head at the same time when, browsing through the old yearbook, I come across your photo.
But things have changed and, twelve years later, I cannot help but think of how little I come in contact with the C.T.’s of the world, perhaps no more frequently than my morning commute down Broward Boulevard, heading east past the “undesirable” sections of town before arriving at work. I cannot help but think of how unlikely it is that I will ever again draw a friend from their ranks, no matter how open-minded I may consider myself to be, no matter how much I might excoriate the sheltered elite for their indifference to the suffering in their own backyards. How it slowly became that, when the Black teenager with an unkempt appearance approaches my car, my first instinct, almost mechanical, is to lock the door.
Twelve years ago, I would have been ashamed of what I have become in those aspects of my life. Because twelve years ago, none of that mattered. Twelve years ago, that Black teenager with the unkempt appearance was one of my best friends.
I cannot undo and remake a reality marred by hundreds of years of ugliness, and I simply cannot revert to being a class-blind, naive 11-year old again. But may I perish from this earth before, like far too many in my position, I ever lose sight of that enduring ugliness, before it ever loses its acerbic and intolerable bitterness in my mouth.
Goodbye, C.T. Even if everybody else forgot about you, please rest assured that I never did, and never will.
Beyond any possibility of refute, the divisions existed then just as firmly as they do today. But they did not matter to us, we did not see or acknowledge them, and they did not create any artificial barriers that would have cast doubts on the sustainability of what we shared. We were friends, and that was all that mattered. We shared silly jokes during Social Studies class, ate lunch together, sat next to each other in the computer lab. You were not my best friend, but you were close it. My life was enriched by your presence, and you never once judged me as so many of the other kids did. You too, like me, only saw what drew us together, not what differentiated us.
How funny it is that they never once resonated to me, all of those subtle yet telling details. How you sometimes arrived to school late, clothes dirty, smelling as if you had not properly bathed that morning. How we spoke so differently, listened to different music and watched different television channels. How different our grades often were. Back then, those things were nothing more than inconsequential tidbits of information to my young mind, and certainly not attributes which would have in any manner elicited judgments on my part.
It was so hard for me to grasp at first, when you stopped arriving that next year. The tardiness abruptly became total absence. You had not moved; indeed, I frequently saw you on the street corner while driving by with my parents, surrounded by people with no good intentions, but I never raised my hand, never demanded to know what was going on. Eventually, my frivolous mind simply lost much of the interest that your absence had initially provoked. I had other closer friends, and the old adage of “out of sight, out of mind” began to hold true. You never returned, I never did get to say goodbye, but your name always lingered in the back of mind.
Twelve years later, I wonder what has become of you. What good can possibly befall the Black middle school dropout? Twelve years later, I can only use all of my power to fiercely condemn and attempt to ameliorate the system that failed you, that has failed so many and will undoubtedly continue to do so. Twelve years later, I still cannot help but smile and shake my head at the same time when, browsing through the old yearbook, I come across your photo.
But things have changed and, twelve years later, I cannot help but think of how little I come in contact with the C.T.’s of the world, perhaps no more frequently than my morning commute down Broward Boulevard, heading east past the “undesirable” sections of town before arriving at work. I cannot help but think of how unlikely it is that I will ever again draw a friend from their ranks, no matter how open-minded I may consider myself to be, no matter how much I might excoriate the sheltered elite for their indifference to the suffering in their own backyards. How it slowly became that, when the Black teenager with an unkempt appearance approaches my car, my first instinct, almost mechanical, is to lock the door.
Twelve years ago, I would have been ashamed of what I have become in those aspects of my life. Because twelve years ago, none of that mattered. Twelve years ago, that Black teenager with the unkempt appearance was one of my best friends.
I cannot undo and remake a reality marred by hundreds of years of ugliness, and I simply cannot revert to being a class-blind, naive 11-year old again. But may I perish from this earth before, like far too many in my position, I ever lose sight of that enduring ugliness, before it ever loses its acerbic and intolerable bitterness in my mouth.
Goodbye, C.T. Even if everybody else forgot about you, please rest assured that I never did, and never will.
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