Paula was a friend of my mom's. They played soccer together.
Sometimes after practice, Paula came with us to grab a bite at Taco Bell, or maybe get an ice cream or frozen yogurt.
She seemed nice enough to my twelve-year-old mind. Tanned White lady. Maybe thirty-five. Deep voice. Laughed a lot.
Sometimes she included me in the conversation, but usually the adults talked while my brother and I did our own thing.
One night, we gave Paula a ride home. We lived in a suburb ten miles east of San Diego. Paula lived even deeper in a smaller town – not quite rural but almost.
On our way back home, my mom said out of nowhere that Paula liked living there because she woke up every morning and didn't have to worry about seeing any Black people.
She said it casually, without malice or contemplation or any further point to make or discussion to have. No one else said anything – in the car that night or ever again. Bon Jovi probably played on the radio.
As a kid, I never thought about it again, but clearly I remember.
Now, I see that everyone in that car was responsible for perpetuating racism.
Paula, the obvious antagonist. My mom, the guilty accomplice. And us kids, ignorantly dragging the legacy into the next generation.
That's how racism continues.
Unless we actively work to reverse it.