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The "N" Word By Roger Dean Kiser
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Roger Dean Kiser
Being raised in a Jacksonville, Florida orphanage, we kids were not subjected or even knew of the prejudices that were known to the rest of the world. At least we did not think that we were.
I remember running away from the orphanage when I was about eight years old. I was walking down Riverside Avenue when I happened to duck behind a restaurant because I had seen a police car driving toward me. Standing by the back door of the restaurant was a young Negro boy about my same age. A large white man was handing the young boy a paper bag. He rubbed the little boy on top of his head and then he closed the door. The little boy reached into the paper bag, pulled out a chicken leg, and began to eat it as if he were starving.
"You like chicken legs?" said the boy, as he looked up at me with his big white eyes.
"I guess," I told him.
I had not eaten since very early that same morning and I did not have any money.
"Here," he said, as he held the bag open to me.
I reached in the brown paper bag, I took out a chicken leg, and I began to eat it.
"You wanna walk down to my house with me?" asked the boy.
"Sure," I told him.
We walked out onto Riverside Avenue and began walking toward the large park where I always stayed when I ran away from the orphanage.
"Get off the road nigger boy," yelled someone as they drove past us at a fast rate of speed.
I looked up to see who had yelled out the words but I could not tell whom they were. The Negro boy did not say a word. He just kept on eating his chicken leg and he kept on walking. Less than a block down the road the same car came past us again.
"You like walking with niggers, boy?" yelled out one of the white boys, who was now hanging half way out the passenger window of the car.
"Don't say nothin' to'em. Just keep on walking," said the negro boy.
"Why would they call me a nigger like that?" I asked the boy.
"They ain't talking to you. They talkin' to me," he said.
"No, They talking to me," I said.
"You ain't black. You can't be no nigger," he said to me.
"The orphanage always calls us kid’s niggers. How would those guys know that I was from the orphanage?" I asked him.
"You gotta be black to be called a real nigger," he advised me.
"Black? Like a black crayon? Is a black crayon called like a nigger?" I asked him.
"No. That is different. You gotta be a negro person to be called a nigger." He said.
"That don't make any sense at all to me. I ain't black so why does the orphanage call me a nigger?" I asked him.
"I don't know why they do that," he responded.
We walked about a block before the car came around once again.
"What you got in that damn bag, boy?" said one of the men in the car.
"Just chicken legs," I told him.
The Negro boy wrapped the bag into a ball and held it tight to his chest.
"Bring me the damn bag," yelled the man who was driving the car.
We just stood there to afraid to move. All of a sudden, the car door opened and one of the boys stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Give me that bag right now," he said, shaking a small hammer, which he was now holding in his hand.
The Negro boy held out the bag and then he let it drop to the ground. He and I took off running, as fast as we could, across the street and into the park. We stopped by a large tree and looked back to see what was happening. The boy with the hammer had picked up the brown paper bag and was now dumping the contents all over the sidewalk. The man and two other boys had now exited the car and all four began laughing and stomping on the chicken.
After they kicked the chicken off the sidewalk, they got back into their car and they drove away. I walked the boy back to his house where I met his mom and dad. As we sat on their front porch drinking iced tea I waited for him to tell them about what had happened, but he never did. He acted as though being called a name was just a normal everyday thing.
I will remember that incident for as long as I live. I will never forget the look that I saw in his eyes or the scared look that I saw on his face. However, more than that I will never forget what it feels to be called a "nigger", no matter what color you are.
April
2005
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Published author and internet writer Roger Dean Kiser's stories take
you into the heart of a child abandoned by his family and abused by the system responsible for his care. Through his stories, he relives the sadness
and cruelty of growing up an orphan in the early 1950s. Today Kiser lives in Brunswick, Georgia with his wife Judy, where
he continues to write, publishing his work on his internet web site: http://www.rogerdeankiser.com and short story index at:
http://www.geocities.com/trampolineone/survive/noframe.htm. |
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