Boogers and Kickball
By: Mike Klonowski
 
    After a few years of college, I miss nothing more than the innocent fun that came with elementary school. The worst thing that a kid could do is get busted with a finger halfway up their left nostril. Oh, then the giggles would start, the pointingóthat kid would have any seat he wanted, just as long as it was on the other side of the lunchroom. Boogers, kissing girls, and other taboo subjects like that made the talk of the day, but one thing that really wasnít mentioned was color. Was it because we didnít really see it or because our parents hadnít rubbed off on us yet? Maybe it was there, but the being first person in line for kickball was just more important.
 
    We all played together on our street. If the bigger kids werenít there, it was our time. We threw those tiny rubber footballs that actually fit in our hands. Just like the big kidsÖ we could throw them all the way down the street if we really wanted to. All summer we did stuff together. Half of us white, half of us black. We got on our bikes, got our walkie-talkies, and ìraised hell.î That pretty much consisted of us riding our bikes as fast as we could down a private road by my house. I donít remember a day when we didnít do something. A lot of the time, we just played basketball in my backyard. We had one-on-one tournaments, slam dunk competitions, and sometimes played thirty-three, it was great. My parents didnít mind as long as we acted civil and didnít swear. That was an instant ticket home right there. My mom didnít really enjoy the variety of words that we had secretly discovered from the ìbad kidsî at school. But, there were some words that we never heard on our street. They hadnít even occurred to us. We wouldnít know how to use them. But, eventually we would be surrounded by them.
 
    High school changed everything. We were now very aware of the diversity of my hometown, Cleveland Heights. At least, thatís how it was explained to us. We didnít technically have to interact with black people to be diverse; we just had to live within the same 5 square miles. We had survived the blockbusting era, who cared if we didnít live next to each other? The city was recognized nationally for our diversity, we even got a spot on NPR one morning in a program that looked at special cities in America. Apparently, we did something that the rest of the nation could not do. We had black and white people in the same town, at the same time, and no one had died yet. But, that would soon change.
 

Now I am in contact with a different world, one that has no school walls between reality and me.


    I didnít die my first day in high school, but eventually, changes that I had never expected occurred. There were a lot more kids at Heights High, and most of them were not like me. There was a solid 70-30 ratio. This was the first time in my life when my whiteness seemed to be a disadvantage. ìBetter blend in, bud!î I said to myself. The logic behind this thought was awesome. It wouldnít matter what I could do, I would still stand out like a tall, skinny, white boy in an almost completely black school. So, I did what every other white kid did, and found some other white kid that I recognized and stood next to them. It was like having a mobile security blanket. We used each other like little parasites, walking through the hall. But, then we realized that someone had made life comfortable for us anyway. All of the honors classes that I was in were almost all-white. It didnít really represent the numbers of the school, but I wasnít really complaining. It was a little haven of whiteness in this overwhelming tide of blackness.

    Itís not like I could hide forever, though. There was still hallway time, and common, lower level classes. There was plenty of time for a solid, traditional beat-down. As afraid as I was of being myself, I tried it a few times in Gym class. Eventually, I learned after the swelling around my ears went down, that we would have to change. I would have to give up this idea that I could just cut myself off from seventy percent of the school. I didnít change my identity or anything. I started listening to what people were saying, instead of just brushing it off as junk talk. It was a new language. But, when I listened, the jokes started making sense. I would be sitting in class and hear someone make a joke, and it was funny. Slowly, I got looks, but they werenít shooting through me with the usual laser sharpness. It seemed that the black kids in my class didnít think that I was accepting of them at first either. They had put their shields up just like me. Things got better and better everyday. There was more of a mutual respect thing going on. Maybe, it was just macho male bonding in your average PE class taking over. But, maybe we had both forgotten to hide behind our color. We had realized that underneath whatever biases we had been covered with all of our lives that we were still similar. We all just wanted to win in whatever we played, whether it was football, basketball, or kickball, it didnít matter. We were all rated on our abilities as an athlete. When you got picked for a team, it wasnít based on color. It was on your potential as a human being.
 
    It took me a long time to become as comfortable as I did in high school. Gym class was the first step. I got beat up a few times for being who I was, and so did friends of mine. There was one incident freshman year, when this kid started wailing on me without even finding out each otherís names. He didnít even go to school with us. I felt that I was just singled out as the only white boy. The same year, a friend of mine was actually seriously injured. A pretty huge guy from our drafting class took a few swings at my friend. His skull was punctured by a spiked brass knuckle that the guy was wearing. My friend was okay, and the kid went to jail for that one, but it reinforced that fear that I had a bulls-eye on my back. But, I did get over it. Eventually, my fear subsided, and I could walk the halls of my school, when I wanted to, without fearing my own whiteness.

    Marquette is a pretty white place in America. I donít mean Milwaukee; I mean the school is very, very white. It still throws me off sometimes. When I go to class, and all I pass are white people. While it feels comfortable, being surrounded by people that look like, and act like me, it also is a thorn in my side. There is an enormous sense of guilt that follows me everywhere. How do you pass all of these poor people on the street, which seem to be a majority of black people? Iíve got it pretty good. I go to a decent middle-class university in America. There I am, walking between them and the bus everyday between classes. Do, I feel bad about who I am? Not at all. Do I feel bad about what I represent? Most definitely. I feel like I am the chance that they were never given. I am the potential success, which they will never have it as good as. But, all I keep doing everyday; is just walking to class everyday. But, I swear, I can feel their glaring eyes seeing first my whiteness, and then knowing what it represents. It might be a matter of prejudice, but I still feel ashamed at times. I just want to be invisible, and not be thought of like that.

    I know that I shouldnít feel bad. I couldnít control who gave birth to me. It just happened. I know if these people that I pass everyday were in my situation, they would not give up what they had out of guilt. Maybe, it will all come to me someday; what to do with this so-called burden. Back in high school, I thought that I had it all figured out. I felt more comfortable in my sheltered world. Now, I am in contact with a different world, one that has no school walls between reality and me. I see the rest of the worldís view of me. There is a lot of hate, just staring at me and my Gap jeans. I can feel it, and I can only understand a part of it. Because of this, I donít know if I will ever be able to walk down the street without the feeling of disgust in myself, giving me a stutter in my stride. Whiteness is still an advantage in America. As long as this is true, and the masses continue to agree, the dirty looks will continue, and I will still walk a little awkwardly down the street on the way to class.