When I was five, growing up in Lumberton NC in the early ’50s, our first house was on a corner lot across from a lumber yard and beside a cotton mill. (We had a window air conditioner but couldn’t run it because the wind-borne cotton fibers would clog the filter.)
I played sometimes with a little girl – Sharon – who lived behind us. She was usually dirty and wore clothes that had seen better days, and had a habit of eating dough balls that she carried around with her. They also were usually dirty and had seen better days.
One day we were playing in my back yard when an older black woman walked by. She was dressed (as housekeepers/maids often were in that era) in a dress, apron, and cap, all made of white cotton.
Sharon looked up as she passed and, in a matter-of-fact greeting carrying no emotion of any kind whatsoever, said, “Hey, n*****.”
The woman actually seemed to deflate, as if being weighed down at the shoulders and simultaneously punched in the stomach. I will never forget her expression, her posture, and her visible sadness.
Though I couldn’t put it in words at the time, I knew, from my instinct and upbringing, that the old sayings were true. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder … and I hope that beautiful woman had someone to tell her that when she got home.