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When I was ten years old I sat quietly in my seat as my fifth grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Huffman, played a record of a speech given by Martin Luther King Jr. It was around that time that I was beginning to recognize that people were different than me. I went to a primarily white school with the only minorities being Hispanic. The town I grew up in was physically segregated by racial lines, and I would often ask my family why my friend Juan wasn't allowed to come to my house. My father would say "one day you'll understand". Months went by and I would continually ask my father the same question, and would continually get the same answer - until one Saturday afternoon rolled around and my father learned a lesson.
Finally getting tired of the same question, my father said "come on, let's go for a ride, I want to show you something." We hopped in the car and took a drive into the Hispanic part of town. We slowly rolled up on a group of kids around my own age, and my father pointed and said "Take a look and tell me what you see". I peered out the window and said "I see a bunch of kids playing catch". My father told me "look again, don't see anything different about them?" "No", I said, "why - should I?" My dad took a deep sigh and placed his hands on the wheel, he looked up and pointed out the window and said "none of those kids look like you."
I turned to my father with the wide eyes of youth and said "shouldn't I like people for their character, and not if they are white?" My fathers eye narrowed, which usually only happened when he was mad, and he said "where did you hear that?" My heart was racing because I thought I was in trouble and I said in crackling voice "Mr. King said it in a dream." My father asked me "what does the word character mean?" I looked at him still scared and I said "what kind of person they are", yes it was generic, but I was ten.
My father looked at me, laughed a little laugh which put me at ease before saying "you can invite Juan over next week."
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