Photo: Mattel
In my kindergarten class, there were two black children. Me and another girl named Amber. (I changed her name to protect her privacy.)
Because we were the minority in our classroom, naturally you’d think we’d stick together. Right?
Our school was predominantly white. Outside of two teachers, my older sister in the 5th grade, and a few other black kids in between, there were approximately 15 people of color in the building at a time. The numbers were so small, it was obvious when someone took the day off. It just felt like 14, you know?
Look at me being the only black person in the room.
Before my first-ever day of school, my grandmother (in her late 80’s at the time) told me, “Be kind to the other colored children.” So that was my goal. Make a “colored” friend. Note: my dear grandmother was born in 1913 and literally grew up during the time when we were colored.
Back to Amber. She had other plans. The moment I walked into the classroom holding my mother’s hand, Amber and I locked eyes.
Archive footage of Amber when she saw me.
I noticed her attempts to pretend as though we did not exist in the same space.
On the first day of school, I fell to my knees and cried when my mom left the classroom. I remember her walking up the hill to the parking lot and her figure growing smaller and smaller until she was gone. You see dear friends, I did not go to preschool. I went to an in-home daycare with my grandmother’s neighbor, Ms. Sanders aka Maw. Maw adopted me as her granddaughter and she literally taught me everything I needed to know. I knew all the phone numbers of emergency contacts, my home address, how to read and tell time, and most of the words to Dr. Dre’s Chronic album (courtesy of my sister.) The problem was, I did not know how to interact with my peers because I spent my days with old people.
Two hours into the first day, I was ready to go home.
Me looking for friends.
Amber not wanting to be my friend.
A group of us kindergarteners, Amber included, were on the playground chatting about cartoons. At 5 years old, cartoons weren’t exactly my cup of tea. The Power Rangers, soap operas, and after-school specials were more my thing. I remember saying, “I don’t like cartoons. Me and my Maw watch In the ‘Heat of the Night. Bubba Skinner is my favorite. I know how to tell time because Matlock comes on at 12 o’clock and In the Heat of the Night comes on at 1 and Another World at 2.” When the white kids laughed and called me “stupid,” Amber’s ass laughed the loudest.
My ego shrunk to the size of an ant…a black ant.
Still, I would not be derailed. I was going to make me a colored friend. Every day I asked Amber to play with me at recess.
Her response?
Here we are a month into K5 and I have no friends. Much to my dismay, the only other child who looked like me, wouldn’t pay me any attention.
I offered snacks, my companionship, and even gave up my computer time to hang out with her. She wasn’t having it. Amber is my earliest recollection of rejection. (Somehow this all foreshadowed imminent forced relationships that would come in my twenties.)
On a bus ride to school one morning, Amber conjured up a scheme to pick a fight with me. Sis kept throwing her backpack at me as I tried to remain calm.
Before I started school, my parents told me never to start a fight…BUT should I ever get called into the ring, I should protect myself.
Amber approached with me a different philosophy.
Fifteen minutes into our bus ride, Amber threw her bookbag at me one too many times and “accidentally” elbowed me. I told Amber, “If you touch me again, I’m going to hit you.” The last thing I remember is being hauled into the principal’s office for punching Amber in the stomach.
Principal: Tyler why were you fighting?
5-year-old me: I told her I was going to hit her before I did it. I’m not wrong.
He could not argue with my statement. From this day forward, Amber waged a war on me. Every time we crossed paths, I could feel her staring a hole in me.
My kindergarten class anticipated show and tell, the day where teachers promote classism. We were asked to bring in our favorite toys or household items, then present them before our classmates with a story about the significance. Show and tell comes with great anxiety as you watch your classmates become impressed or unimpressed with personal items that are near and dear to your heart. In hindsight, it’s early public speaking practice. I remember the rich kids snickering at the students who stuttered over their presentation in shame and fear of persecution because their toys weren’t up to par with that of their flashy peers. As for me, I was prideful as hell. I’d recently received my first black Barbie doll and excited to brag about her. No one else had a black barbie, of course, I was honored to stunt on the class.
Me when I sat in the sharing chair ready to tell about my Barbie.
The doll came with an ink pad. Under her cowboy boots, there was a cool design where I could add the ink and make stamps on paper. I was proud and told my white peers that I liked her because she looked like me.
Amber’s hating ass was NOT impressed. She watched my presentation salty AF.
Before lunch, our teacher instructed the class to put away our show and tell items. I recall gently placing MY DOLL in MY BACKPACK IN MY CUBBY. So dear friends, I have a question. After lunch, WHY WAS MY DOLL’S HEAD HANGING OUT OF AMBER’S BACKPACK?
Me when I stumbled upon the scene:
Early on, I adopted the “see something, say something” initiative. I reported my stolen Barbie to my teacher. And guess what Amber did when confronted? Amber claimed she had never seen my doll before although it was in her backpack, in her cubby, and JUST AN HOUR EARLIER I HAD PRESENTED IT IN SHOW AND TELL. Unbeknowest to my classmates, I went through a lot to get that doll. My pride for this material possession was rooted in broken promises from my dad. To me, she was more than a doll. At this early age, I knew all too well about being let down and fighting to hold onto things. It took every fiber of my existence not to knock out a baby tooth from her lying mouth. Amber picked the wrong day to steal from me.
Amber playing dumb when we confronted her.
Another classmate claimed she saw Amber take it from my bookbag.
I know the girl was lying in her eyewitness account. She didn’t actually see Amber steal the doll. Truth be told, we were all sick of Amber and her reign of terror, willing to get her kicked out of class by any means necessary.
Although I was 5 years old and developing my own moral compass, I realized Amber was a thieving liar. Color no longer mattered, I forever viewed her as a dishonest person. This was an early lesson on choosing trustworthy friends that align with your values. I realized I didn’t need her as a friend. I moved on from Amber and focused on making other friends. I finally made a best friend, Sarah. By Spring, I’d moved on from Amber. She became isolated from the classroom in frequent timeouts and visits to the principal’s office because of her unacceptable behavior. It felt good standing up for myself, but deep down, I felt sadness for Amber. She had this emptiness in her eyes as if she wasn’t even a child, but instead an adult who’d witnessed trauma and hiding from it all in a small body.
Amber became notorious for theft and mischief. One day she went to the principal’s office, never to return. After K5, it came as no surprise that Amber was removed from our school. I was happy to move on to first grade without Amber’s problematic ways. 1994 would be the last time that I saw Amber…UNTIL A FEW MONTHS AGO. Wanna know what Amber is up to?
My sister sent me a mugshot of Amber. She was arrested among 44 others in a child predator operation. Amber was charged in the case with prostitution. I Googled Amber and found a timeline of her life of crime.
2018: Prostitution
2017: arrested for assaulting an officer
2010: charged w/ 2 counts of child neglect
2007: Grand Larceny, probation violation
And these are crimes after the age of 21. Only God knows what she got into as an adolescent.
In kindergarten, I remember the principal escorting Amber from class, but never did I see the school counselor. Were Amber’s parents given proper resources to care for their child who was clearly disturbed?
Looking at her extensive criminal record, the school-to-prison pipeline is real. What would Amber’s life resemble today if WE had equal representation in our classroom way back in 1993? What if she had a mentor? What if she was offered counseling services at age 5? This story would’ve ended differently.
Amber stole my doll and lied, but now I see her behavior as a cry for help. Her repeated disruptive behavior was a direct result of what she lacked at home. I come from a small town and everyone spoke of Amber’s troubled home and unfit parents. Her mother was as mean as they come. Amber bounced around in foster care but never received the help and emotional support she needed. Look at her now. She’s a felon with children of her own.
My grandmother was a national treasure. I see why she told me to be good to the other colored children. Back in her day, the early Jim Crow era, it was vital for black people to acknowledge one another. The systems in place weren’t designed for our basic liberties or protections, instead, they worked to erase our very existence. Even today, we’re often underrepresented in rooms and paid less than our non-black peers. When it comes time to speak up about these issues, we’re often silenced or made to believe that the bias we experience is simply in our heads. It’s a relief knowing that you aren’t the only one. This is why I’m thankful for organizations like The Memo and Blossom, providing a safe space for women of color to grow. I’m grateful that I’ve found a tribe of women who get it and are interested in my spiritual, emotional, and professional growth. Above all, I’m thankful that I know how to receive genuine love from other women without envy or fear of ridicule.
While Amber and I never connected on a personal level, I hope that she found comfort in knowing she wasn’t the only one. I saw her, even when no one else would. In the end, that’s what we all want…to feel seen.