In seventh grade, I sprouted breasts.  In the eighth grade, the most eligible boy in my class wanted to go steady with me.  I was so excited. My mom and I didn’t relate on much so the scoring of high quality boy attention was prime pre-Prime Time TV conversation.

Mom, can I go to the movies this weekend?
Who with?
Lou.
Lou?
Yeah.

Oh, honey.
What?
You can’t go out with him.
Why not?
You’ll give Pappy a heart attack.

So I discover after 11 years my mother is a hypocrite.  I was taught to never judge someone by the color of their skin, among other simple lessons.  Here was the exception.

Lou was* athletic, popular, class president, and very handsome.  But he’s black.  My fury in that moment was so complete.  I railed against the system. I attacked platitudes.  I threatened to expose my family for the racists that they are.  I couldn’t believe they were literally forbidding me to get involved with him.

It’s for the best.  He just wasn’t that into me.  I attempted to give him a hand job on the bus ride back from Camp Bear Track but we couldn’t find sufficient cover.  I touched Kenny’s semi-pubescent genitals instead.

Sigh.  Neglection.