I once thought my mama had lost her mind.

I watched her put cheese and bread, heated it over the stove, served it with tomato soup,

and had some green things she put on a plate.

I asked her what they were and she called them pickles.

They looked nasty. And the cheese sandwich was supposed

to be dipped in the soup? What in the world had gotten to my mama's head? This meal of grilled

cheese soup and nasty green stuff wasn't for me, and it wasn't for her.

This was a snack she'd sometimes make other children.

My mama was a housekeeper for a well-to-do white family in Richmond.

Some days she'd make the kids something to eat.

Occasionally I was there too.

It wasn't uncommon for black women like my mama to take their kids to work because she couldn't afford for someone to babysit me.

Even though, ironically, she would sometimes leave me at home alone to go watch someone else's kids.

I never mind joining her because this was a whole other world, a big home filled with toys

and weird things in the fridge like pickles and cottage cheese. But there were a few rules.

I couldn't eat any of that weird stuff even if I wanted to, and if anyone came over, I wasn't supposed to interact with them for any

reason.

Black kids didn't get to interact with white adults.

I needed to be invisible.

And the biggest rule, don't use the bathroom while white folks are home.

When they weren't home, though, Mama let me use it as I needed. And I started

taking this for granted. I started feeling too comfortable in these white folks home. And one day,

...