7 A Turning Point In Our Lives.

The scarf incident soon faded from my memory as school dragged on. Unlike summer vacation, school progressed at a snail's pace. Every day, while different, felt lifeless. I had no friends, and John rarely met up with me at school and when he did, it was just to check on me and Ms. Betty's teaching style wasn't engaging either. I longed for winter break, but for now, playing with my brother in the afternoon would have to suffice.

I often wondered who had invented this terrible thing called school. If I ever got my hands on that person... One day, while I was out fishing with my father and John, I brought up the idea of staying home at least once a week. I hoped for some mercy, but my father revealed that the situation at school wasn't entirely his fault.

"I suppose you all will never understand," he said in a soft tone. "If I kept you home, they'd put me in jail, and then who would take care of you and John?"

"Why would they put you in jail?" I asked.

"It's required by law that you go to school, whether I like it or not." he replied. 

"Wel what about Lucas and the other kids they arent as school as often as us" I asked hoping to catch him.

Once again he sighed, "See what I mean Lucy you're too young to understand how this world works."

After that, I stopped blaming my father for this forced labour and decided to wait it out. I decided it would be best to injure this mundane and boring school life if it meant keeping my father out of prison.

However, about six weeks into the term, something strange happened. I had never noticed the attitudes and behaviour o thoes around me before, but that day, it became clear.

"I don't want to be in a group with you!" a girl named Mary Gooding shouted at me.

I was taken aback and furrowed my brow. "Why not? Ms. Betty said we need four people in a group, and you only have three."

Mary crossed her arms. "It's not that. I just don't want to be in a group with a nigger lover."

I heard the shocked expressions from everyone in the class, and even Ms. Betty stared, breathless. I remained firm, even though I had no idea what a "nigger lover" was. I knew it was an insult, so I defended myself, "I'm not a nigger lover! But maybe you are."

Mary opened her mouth and eyes wide. She seemed to be in disbelief but replied, "Then how come my mommy says your father is a nigger lover? If your father's a nigger lover, then you ought to be one too."

I was left speechless, but Ms. Betty intervened, "That's enough!" she shouted from the front of the class, "Both of you sit down!" afterward she switched me from Mary's group and put me in a group with boys.

As I sat at my desk, one of the boys leaned in and asked, "Is your father really a nigger lover?"

I looked at him with a dejected expression and replied, "I don't know." As class went on I couldn't stop thinking about what Mary had told me. Thankfully as per Ms Betty's request Mary didn't accuse me for the rest of the day, but I couldn't help but feel that everyone kept their distance from me.

That evening, I decided to ask my father what a "nigger lover" was. He was so deep in a book that he didn't even notice when took a seat on the couch next to his rocking chair.

"Whatcha reading?" I asked.

He looked over and shifted his glasses. "I didn't even notice you there. Why aren't you outside with John?"

"I didn't feel like going outside," I replied, holding back my true feelings.

He chuckled. "Well, I'm reading a book about World War I."

I didn't know much about World War I, so I got straight to the point. "What's a nigger lover?"

My father froze and looked over at me. "Where did you hear that term?"

His reaction made me hesitate to answer, but I continued. "A-a girl at school said you were a nigger lover."

My father pursed his lips and set his book on the stand next to him. Then he sighed and said, "Did she tell you who told her that?"

I thought for a moment and replied, "She said her mom told her that we were all nigg-."

"Stop saying that," he interrupted, then he put his hand on his forehead and shook his head saying, "Do parents these days have any morals?"

I remained silent.

He looked at me again. "That term is an insult white folks throw at other white folks when they associate with Black individuals."

"So it's bad?" I asked.

"To most white folks, yes," he replied. "But for us, it's not. It's okay to be called a nigger lover, but I don't want you to use that term on anyone. Always remember that everyone deserves to be treated with respect."

"What about the word nigger?" I asked, assuming it had some meaning.

"That's a disrespectful term used for Black individuals," he explained. "I don't want to ever hear you using it. You understand?"

I nodded in agreement. "I only hope my good intentions don't bring harm to any of you." he continued solemnly.

"What about you?" I asked.

He smirked and grabbed me by the head. "I hope I don't get harmed either."

Although I didn't fully understand what my father was saying, I knew he meant well. When John came inside from playing, I talked to him about what happened at school, and he said he had started getting called that, too. He told me not to worry, and that it would blow over soon. I hoped so too, but little did I know it was the beginning of a very challenging time for me and John.