you hit them and they stay black.
Trevor, when you hit him he turns
blue and green and yellow and red.
I’ve never seen those colors before.
I’m scared I’m going to break him. I
don’t want to kill a white person.
I’m so afraid. I’m not going to touch
him.” And she never did.
My grandmother treated me
like I was white. My grandfather
did, too, only he was even more
extreme. He called me “Mastah.” In
the car, he insisted on driving me as
if he were my chauffeur. “Mastah
must always sit in the backseat.” I
never challenged him on it. What
was I going to say? “I believe your