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Colors (1992)

When we were children, the world that was shown to us was in black and white. There were certain truths, indisputable rights, and conversely, undeniable wrongs. Perhaps our parents felt that our poor little eight year old minds could only fathom the dichotomous nature of their safe and protective world and not the complexities of reality. They therefore sought to protect us from ourselves, ingrained a basic value system that was bi-polar, and convinced us that the world was simple. If you were good, you would be rewarded. If not, then the consequences could be severe. The bogey-man could get you while you slept. You would break out in a pox for thinking impure thoughts. Your future was solely in your hands and anything was possible for the righteous person.

In those early years, the formula worked. My three brothers and I were blessed with what is now considered the atypical non-dysfunctional family. Mom and Dad worked very hard and though our family fortune was at best above the subsistence level, we felt we were rich. Disharmony was something that existed for the bad people. We were happy.

Mark’s father was black. His mother white. This was a wonderful anomaly to me back in 1957. I had barely been exposed to white people back then. Except for the Reeds and the Cleavers that I saw on television, white folks were an unknown entity. Mark had a sister that we called Cassie. Her given name was Cassandra, though the only person that I knew that ever called her that was her mother. Cassie was beautiful. Her skin was soft and supple and there always seemed to be a slight blush to her cheeks. I never really got to know her very well. First of all, she was my buddy’s little sister. Secondly, if it were possible to be an eight year old geek, I was one of the charter members.

Mark, on the other hand, was a tall handsome devil by any standard. He dressed better than all the other kids in the school, and certainly was much more dapper than anything that I could imagine being. My wardrobe consisted of mostly white T-shirts and blue jeans. In fact, I had enough blue jeans to last until my thirteenth year. Mom had made a spectacular purchase from a jeans manufacturer for assorted sized from seven slim to size fourteen. This was her hedge against inflation since four growing boys would need jeans every six months and money was not always on hand. Sometimes, she would buy a large bolt of material and make identical shirts for my brothers and me. Her most famous acquisition was a print that displayed license plates from all 48 states on a white background. We wore the shirts proudly. There was nothing geeky about this. Mark, however, always had store bought clothes. His elegance was simple and pure. He never flaunted it. He did not even seem to be aware of it. He was my friend.

He had a dog named Ruffy. Ruffy was an indescript black hound that was part lab and part something else, but he liked to go fishing with us. On Saturdays, we’d catch the #5 McAllister bus and then transfer to the 22 Fillmore and make our way to Muni Pier at Aquatic Park. These were usually day long adventures and Ruffy would ride the bus with us, just another companion of the expedition. Of course, we did have to pay the 15 cent fare for him, but neither the bus drivers nor the other passengers seemed to mind. Our days were truly simple then. San Francisco in 1957 was extraordinary for eight year olds.

I’m not sure if I was attracted to Mark because he came from an inter-racial family. These things are not conscious contemplatives for an eight year old. I did know that I had a crush on his little sister though. I also felt that Mark’s family life was almost as good as the Reeds and the Cleavers. His father even wore a suit and tie when he went to work Unlike my family, his mother did not have to rise at 5:30 and go to work. She was a white housewife that looked every bit as good as the ladies in the commercials.

About a year later, Michael joined our inner circle of friends. Strangely enough, he too, was the child of a mixed marriage. His mother was black, his father , white. We never really saw too much of Mr. McClammy though. The only time that I distinctly recall him was an unpleasant one. It was Michael’s ninth birthday and Mr. McClammy came into the room while we were playing spin-the-bottle. He was red faced and angry and the aroma of what I later learned was alcohol followed him throughout the room. He had loud, harsh words with Michael’s mother, then left as abruptly as he had come. Was this white man with red face the antithesis to what was good? He was certainly no Ward Cleaver, and I had never seen any black man act like this. He had frightened me and I needed to sort things out and place them into the pigeonholes that I had become comfortable with. Perhaps the world was still simple. Black was good, but sometimes, white men when burning with red fire was bad. Not all white people were that way. Only those that burned with fire.

Throughout all of this, Michael appeared oblivious to the ruckus. If he was embarrassed by the sudden disruption, then it didn’t show. His mother had come into the room shortly after the fire man had left and encouraged us to continue to play our game. This game was new territory for all of us. I was gravely disappointed by the fact that Cassie had not been invited. This was done at Mark’s request because he didn’t want his kid sister there cramping his style. Michael, Mark and I had secretly planned this party ploy for weeks. All the righteous girls had been invited and actually a few of them showed up. We had agreed that when we spun the bottle and the pointer ended up on a member of the same sex, we would shake hands. Anything else would have been gross. However, if the pointer landed on one of the fair young damsels, we were required to kiss on the lips!

I can’t remember if the other guys were as excited as I was. I only remember my turn at the bottle. Mark and Michael were exhorting me onward. They had already had their turns and from the grins on their faces and the giggling of the girls that they had bestowed their charms on, the experience must have been exhilarating. I must have been visibly nervous because when I tried to put my hand on the coca cola bottle, I shook with anticipation. My eyes were glued to the bottle, unable to look up at the girls that sat cross legged in our little circle. Mrs. McClammy placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and I will always thank her for that. I spun the bottle.

Joyce Miller. If not the prettiest girl at the party, Joyce was by far the smartest. In the perfect world of children, we assign roles and categorize people and things into niches. Joyce was the undisputed "brain" of Mrs. Lou’s fourth grade class. Mark and Michael clapped with glee. This was a perfect match. My role in the perfect world was also "brain". I was Joyce’s male counterpart.

She downcast her eyes shyly as I moved closer to her. As an adult, I could probably fabricate a whirlwind of romance and emotion for this memory. But realistically, the only emotion that I can recall was panic. I lifted her chin gently with my hand, looked into her coal black eyes, and pecked her on the lips. The rest of the party members went crazy, hooting like animals. I could not hear them though. I could not see them. The only thing I could see was Joyce’s dark brown face, her hair braided and held back by a pink barrette. For a moment, I had forgotten Cassie.

In 1962, I was in the seventh grade. To get to my junior high school, I had to catch a bus all the way across town. San Francisco, despite its large population is only a seven mile by seven mile square. The Muni bus system is convenient and one can almost reach any part of the city for fifteen cents. The branches of the bus system are like a well planned web that connects and integrates all the neighborhoods of the city; from the Hispanic Mission district, to Chinatown, to the white middle class Sunset district, to the inner city Western Addition where I lived. In the course of a long bus ride, one is exposed to every facet of cosmopolitan life.

Junior high school was more than just another passage into a grade level that was the next step in the education system. It was the forced opportunity of moving outside of the safe, perfect world of your childhood, and into that world that your parents had shielded you from. It was where black was no longer black, white was no longer white. There was gray.

In my case, there was yellow. I am Chinese.

On my very first day of school, I rode the bus across town, not with my fishing pole or with Mark and Ruffy, but with a brand new binder and ink pens. I was decked out in an outfit that was store bought and my hair was neatly combed. Across the aisle was an elderly woman with a brown felt hat bedecked with feathers. Seated behind me was a rough-hewn man that might have been a longshoreman. In front of me sat a handsome black man with outrageous clothing, and next to him was a blonde woman who was not particularly pretty. When the bus reached Sacramento Street, the couple in front of me rose and disembarked. As the bus pulled away, I heard the longshoreman mutter something under his breath and saw the elderly woman shaking her head in disdain.

When I finally reached my destination, the school building that was built back during the Depression stood before me. It was ominous in size and had the austere countenance of a stone faced god. I peered up its gray stone columns to the inscriptions that had been chiseled into its upper ramparts. Moses, Aristotle and Herod were a few of the names that I recognized. I felt as if I were entering a new world. I had to shield my eyes with my hands because the eastern sun was rising over the crest of the building and blinding me. The sky was brilliantly blue. A blue that I had never seen before.