Personal Narrative: The Black Stamps

I sat on the porch of my house, overseeing the town. Stamps, or also known as the Black Stamps, had segregation. From schools to shops, everywhere blacks were seen less than whites. It limited what we could do, affecting all of our lives. That apparently, was not abnormal in the United States at the time. Here, is where I was born and will cease to exist. Stopping at the store to buy provisions, ¨Momma¨ sends Bailey with things up to my house. I prefered Marguerite, because I was meaning to have a talk with her, so I stopped her, and asked politely for her. We gave each other age looks, that verified our age. It was low-key my mission to help this young lady speak again, after the traumatizing moments that she had gone through. Her name rolled off my tongue and, even I, at that moment was surprised at how well I said it. As we walked, I said ¨I hear you’re doing very good school work, Marguerite, but that it’s all written. The teachers report that they have trouble getting you to talk in class.¨

I was confident in my abilities to help her speak, and in her abilities to speak. We walked by a triangular farm on our left. Passing the farm the path widened allowing us to walk side by side. I made myself hold back unasked and unanswered questions. I asked her to walk with me.

“No one can possible make you

Over there by the table” I came back with a platter of the cookies. We sat and ate enjoying the lemonade and cookies. I told her that I had specifically made them for her. Watching her stuff the entire cake in her mouth was entertaining, although, I showed no sign that I was entertained. Slowly eating, I began talking about her “lessons in living.” I stated that she must always be intolerant of ignorance, but must understand illiteracy. Hoping, that this would bring up her confidence, I retrieved a mini book called A Tale of Two Cities. I opened up to the first page and started reading. When I finished, I asked if she had enjoyed