Hot topic of the week

What do YOU think?

Most Commented Articles

1997 General Short Story Winner, Second Place

A true story about a very controversial topic--racism.

Red and Yellow, Black and White

by Derek Cyril Bowe

During the first two weeks of my graduate study at a northern university, I luxuriated in a dorm room all to myself. But that changed one evening, when I found a guy outside my door assigned to my room.

He stood tall and awkward, with a deep, menacing scar marking his face. At the same time, something halting and touching flickered through his rough, bumbling manner.

"Come on in," I invited.

With his arrival a few things changed. I became uncomfortably conscious of the loud cassette player I routinely listened to while preparing for classes and winding down for bed.

Unwilling to disturb my roommate any longer, I decided I'd buy a pair of headphones. That way I could still play the music, news, and sermons I found so important in my daily activities.

So one day I caught a bus on its way to a city mall. As we sloughed through layers of ice and snow on the road, I relished the breathtaking snow forms that passed my window.

I wasn't used to such seasonal delights. I'd spent my undergraduate years at a college in Alabama, where an inch of snow was a major event. Before that, I'd lived in the warm embrace of a tropical island.

I settled down at my window seat until, too soon, the bus lurched into the mall's parking lot.

Immediately I headed for the electronics section of a large department store. An array of headphones caught my attention, and I became absorbed in examining each pair. I didn't even hear someone approach.

"May I help you?" The feminine voice jolted me.

I turned and saw a clerk of medium height standing on my right. She wore a floral dress accented by a dark coat, brown stockings, and black mid-heeled shoes. I looked into her twenty-something face framed by blond hair that hung past her collar.

"No, thank you," I responded pleasantly. "I'm just browsing."

I smiled, hoping she'd leave me in my solitary headphone contemplation, but she just stood at my right—arms crisscrossed before her, hands clasped, eyes riveted on me.

I was stunned. Why did she remain?

Then it struck me. She saw a youngish Black male before her. I wore a black bomber jacket that I had unzipped when I entered the store's warmth. I remembered the stories I'd heard of some of the mall's stores being pilfered by young Black shoplifters.

But, I reasoned, I'm not a shoplifter. I'm a Christian, a graduate student. I myself managed a large department store for a few years before starting college.

She stayed put, blatantly watching me, apparently afraid all the headphones would disappear within the folds of my jacket if she blinked an eye.

Devastated, I stumbled out of the store, wandering around the mall until it was time to board the bus.

On the way back to the school the glistening snow and winter sunshine no longer held any magic for me.

When I returned to the dorm, I slumped onto the bed. I lay on my back and stared vacantly at the leafless trees outside my second-story window. Alone and glad for silence, I began to think of the first days of the school year.

I had been told I would have a roommate, a returning student. I was given his name and looked forward to meeting him. But the only evidence I had that he roomed with me was a padlocked bicycle near the chest of drawers.

Day after day I returned to the room to find the bicycle there but no sign of its owner. Then one day the bicycle disappeared too.

Now my eyes fell on a precious photograph on the chest of drawers. I looked at my girlfriend’s smiling face, her graduation mortarboard jauntily placed on the curls that proclaimed her every inch a descendant of West Africa.

I could only guess that my first roommate had seen the photograph and decided he didn't want to room with someone like me.

Looking outside the bleak window, I pondered, Will I always be judged before I am known? Are all Whites like this?

Just then the door swung open, and my new roommate loped into the room. Before long I told him all about the day's happenings. I poured forth a torrent of amazement, confusion, and hurt, vehemently complaining about the injustice of it all. I thought surely he'd understand, since he came from a northern ghetto.

"How," I questioned, "could someone treat another human being like that?"

"Listen, Derek, if you're going to get this upset over such a little thing," my roommate remarked, "you won't last as a Black man in this society!"

Shocked into reality, I silently considered his observation.

I still wanted headphones, so a few days later I boarded the bus headed for another mall. As the bus screeched to a halt in the parking lot, I moved toward a store, my guard raised high.

A handsome wallet caught my eye. I needed a replacement, since my old one showed wear from several years of use. The wallet sat locked in a revolving case. Desiring a closer look, I glanced around for a clerk.

I spotted a brunet woman in her 50s. She had plain features, was on the plump side, and looked quite unassuming, outfitted in her blue slacks and a checkered short-sleeved blouse. She moved heavily over the floor, as though weary of being on her feet.

I—wearing my black unzipped bomber jacket—approached her hesitantly. "I'd like a closer look at one of the wallets." I pointed toward the case.

"Be there in a second," she responded. "I'll grab the key."

Key in hand, she joined me at the stand and opened the case. "Take your time," she said. "I'm going over there." She motioned toward an area some distance away. "When you're finished, just come on over."

She turned and left.

Unattended, I looked at the valuable selection of wallets. Before long I'd made my choice and found the clerk.

"Come with me," she said softly. At the checkout counter she reached for a newspaper, from which she tore out a neat rectangle. "Give this to the cashier. She'll take $5 off that wallet for you."

As though dreaming, I took the coupon, thanking her. At the checkout the cashier acknowledged the coupon. My shopping spree over, I walked toward the bus.

I felt as free as the clouds wafting gently over the blue sky. I'd gone to a department store where I was given free run of valuable items. I'd been treated as another human being, not just a customer—or a criminal. I'd even been given a coupon—another surprise.

Gratitude warmed my heart for the kindness shown me by the clerk, so ordinary in her appearance, yet so uniquely perceptive. I pledged that whenever my faith in the goodness of Whites faltered, I would look at my newly purchased wallet.

In 1997, Derek Cyril Bowe won second place in the General Short Story category of the INSIGHT Writing Contest.