Letter from a White School Girl in Alabama

 

Hey there Colin.

 

Attending a majority black school was a surreal experience.

 

Not even my white teachers came to my defense when I was bullied and harassed by jealous, nasty, vicious black girls. Kindergarten through 3rd grade wasn’t too terrible since teenage hormones hadn’t kicked in yet.

 

The thing about black kids is that they are not that much different than white kids until puberty hits. Something about puberty transforms them into unrecognizable animals. One year they’re adorable doe-eyed dolls, then a couple years later their hormones transform them into wild-eyed zoo animals rioting in the halls on dill pickle day (yes, we actually had a dill pickle vendor at our school) and getting pregnant in the bathrooms.

 

Once we reached 4th grade the school had to start separating the black and white kids into different classrooms (ironic for an integrated school) in order to protect the white kids from the out of control and violent black students. By this time I had only black teachers and had to learn by reading my textbooks in class since they didn’t bother with teaching.

 

4th grade may seem early for puberty, but one of the hush-hush facts of African biology is that they hit puberty much earlier than Caucasians and Asians. They also have a shorter gestation period in the womb. 39 weeks compared to 40 weeks for Caucasians and Asians.

 

The black classrooms were on the opposite side of the hall from the majority white classes. There were some well-behaved black students in our classes too, but they were less than a third of the entire classroom and all of them were females. There was a constant roaring sound coming from the opposite side of the hall which made it difficult for us to concentrate in class.

 

The closest comparison I can think of is an intense football game, but it was much eerier than that. Undifferentiated yells, shrieks, howls and whooping mixed in with the clanking of wood and metal from thrown chairs, overturned desks, pure anarchy. The roar would tend to escalate towards the end of the day and grow so loud that even my black teachers had fearful facial expressions.

 

It seemed at any moment containment would be breached and the black classrooms would explode out into the hallways, and sometimes they did. It was an incredibly stressful and cortisol-inducing environment for black students, white students, and teachers alike.

 

On a parting note, I’ve always thought an anthology of non-fiction short stories detailing the experiences of white, Asian, Hispanic, etc. students in black schools is a much needed narrative lacking in our culture. Our voices deserve representation. In addition to being fascinating and informative, it would also be cathartic for those of us who had to live through it. Maybe that’s a project you’d be willing to spearhead this invaluable historical document.

 

Thanks again, Colin. The world needs you.