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TELL ME A STORY
Truth Matters
by Beth Genly, ACB, ALB
Beth shares a two-part story she recently heard from her adult daughter, Kim. She and her husband, Chris, had
lost the details over the years. But hearing it now, in our present climate, Beth asked Kim for permission to share her
story.
Before I tell you the two parts of my daughter Kim’s Story—Part One:
Kim’s story, let me set the stage for you. In the One evening, while I was at work, Chris took
early 1990’s I lived with my little family—husband the kids to McDonald’s for dinner. As Chris
and two kids—in New Haven, Connecticut. waited in line, the kids drifted away from him
Our daughter Kim was about 6 years old. Our to the Happy Meal toy display, “Dino-Motion
son Caleb would have been maybe 18 months Dinosaurs!”
—a strawberry blond toddler, “my little Peach.” As Kim and Caleb looked at the toys, an
Kim was a sometimes-bossy, always-loving big African American child rushed over to look at
sister. Caleb especially enjoyed the exciting the display, too. As Kim related the events:
stories she’d make up to tell him. The kid was so tiny, he was even more
We were the only white family living in an unsteady on his feet than her little brother. He
otherwise all-black, pleasant middle-class bumped into Caleb and almost knocked him
neighborhood on top of a high hill. down. Since her Daddy didn’t see,
Naturally, all our daughter’s playmates Kim felt it was her job to be the
there were various shades of black protector. So she used her body
and brown. to block the little kid from her
I used to joke to my husband brother.
Chris that because we didn’t What happened next, she
get around to mowing our lawn said, “haunted me for years.”
quite as frequently as everyone The little kid’s watchful mom
else on our block, we were prob- spotted Kim blocking her child.
ably “bringing down the property She swooped over to defend
values.” Behind that lame joke, I felt her boy.
an uneasy sense of white privilege. I “You, girl! Those toys aren’t
suspected we could be more lax about yours. You think you have more
our lawn because our middle class right to look at them than my boy?
status was more secure. Don’t you touch my boy!”
But though our neighborhood was Kim, astonished, thought, “This
certainly peaceful, all was not well in mommy thinks I’m a bad girl!”
our little city. New Haven in the 1990’s I stepped hastily aside, the little
was struggling to overcome severe gun kid wobbled up to look at the toys,
violence inflamed by poverty, gangs, and his protective mom went back
drugs, and racism. Some evenings, as I to standing in line.
prepared our family’s supper, I’d hear Chris, standing in a different line,
distant sounds drifting up from the bottom had missed the whole byplay.
of the hill, through my kitchen window. Moments later, the little boy,
Pow. Pow pow. Pow. bored with the toys, wandered over
to a (to him) towering stack of booster
44 VOLUME 3 ISSUE 7 JANUARY, 2017
