Our Writers Corner  by Sunday Pearson               

"Dear Christine:

"It’s been more than 40 years since we last communicated. I’ve thought about you often and miss the carefree fun we used to have together. Those days seem so long ago, and yet so vivid in my mind. I pray that God has blessed your life as He has mine.

"It’s a different world that we live in today, yet some things haven’t changed much, have they? Life can still be cruel, and even now prejudice exists for those who are different. Of course, I have no first-hand knowledge. Truth is, Christine, my perspective has only been from afar. But I regret that I wasn’t there for you all those years ago when you experienced the pain of prejudice. Together, my friend, we might have taken a stand against hatred. Together, we could have at least tried."

And so begins the letter that I will never send to my friend, Christine Johnson. I long ago lost track of her. Christine and I were only five years old when we lived in Baumholder, Germany, in the 1950s.

I came from a family that today would be called "dysfunctional." I was the stepdaughter of a career soldier whose first goal in life was to further his career, and whose second goal was to make my existence at home a living hell. He succeeded on both counts.

We lived in a government apartment building on the third floor. Christine and her family were below us on the first floor. I had to walk past her front door everyday. Her mom was a great cook, and often the stairwell was filled with the smell of delicious home cooking.

Christine was black and I was white, but that meant nothing to us at the time. She was my best friend! I spent every moment I could at her apartment. I felt good there. She had a loving home. No abuse, only unconditional love. Her mother used to bathe us together in a big German bathtub. I can still see the thick deposit of dirt we left around the tub after our bath together. We were in perpetual motion and into everything, which meant we got really dirty!

I so enjoyed my time with Christine and her family. Hers was the first real family I emotionally connected to.

In Germany, at that time, race didn’t matter. But that soon changed.

Around 1958, the Army moved an entire infantry division to Fort Hood, Texas. My stepfather and Christine’s father were in that division, which meant we moved at almost the same time. Since we did not get into government quarters right away, it was almost two years before I found Christine and her family again.

We moved into McNair Village at Fort Hood, and I discovered that Christine and her family lived there, too. I was thrilled! I went over to her row house one day to see her. Only two years had past, but we were now worlds apart. I remember wondering what had happened to our relationship. Why was my friend so distant and wary of me? She would hardly come outside!

I was 10 years old at the time and didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. I let my best friend find her own way through life at a time when she probably could have used a friend.

In the two years since I had seen her, I did not know that her perspective on life had changed. It was not until many years later that I learned enough American history to understand the bigotry and prejudice she must have experienced in Texas.

Texas during the 1950s was a "white only" society. If you were any color other than white, your life was insignificant. I remember visiting the state capitol in Austin and seeing "white only" drinking fountains, "white only" restrooms, and "white only" food counters.

None of this affected me of course; as a matter of fact, I was too naive to even wonder about the significance of the signs. But Christine must have known. I am certain she experienced the pain of rejection first-hand. She must have known fear for the first time in her young life, rebuffed for absolutely no reason, ridiculed when none was deserved.

It was so wrong! And it still is!

A couple of years ago, I was in Folsom, Calif., in a particular outlet store. I was the only one in the store, and had been browsing for several minutes totally unbothered and virtually unnoticed. I was paying for my purchases when in walked a handsome older black gentleman and his granddaughter. It was Sunday and it appeared they had just come from church, as had I.

As I stood before the cashier ready to hand her my check, I noticed her head nod to another employee in the back of the store toward the two people who had just walked in. The other cleark made her way to the front, but she never once asked if the man and his granddaughter needed assistance finding something. Instead, she observed them suspiciously.

They had not done that to me! I was horrified by the store employees’ behavior. After all, this was 1999, not 1959! This was California, not Texas! So what did I do? What did I say? I’m ashamed to tell you I said and did nothing! I again let the prejudice go uncontested and the injustice go unchallenged.

Then one afternoon not long ago I told my family about Christine Johnson. I had not spoken her name out loud for many, many years. I began to cry gut wrenching sobs for a friendship that never was, and for the realization that I had been given an opportunity as an adult to stop the same kind of injustice and again did nothing! I was mortified by my behavior, too ashamed to even tell my family the whole truth.

How on Earth could I have let the incident happen in the outlet store without saying something? Was my character so flawed that when faced with a similar situation I again did nothing?

I have learned that prejudice exists in many forms, and not just in the southern states. We are bombarded with its ugliness daily. Some of it subtle, like what I saw. All of it wrong. It is painfully easy to turn a blind eye to this insidious monster that robs people of dignity and opportunity.

I pray that as I walk through this journey of life, I will be given another chance as an adult to right a wrong. That I will be a bold advocate for the oppressed, to speak for those without a voice and to never again stoically stand by and allow injustice to another human being!

That is part of the reason why I wrote the letter to Christine Johnson, even though I know I will never be able to mail it.

"In closing, Christine, I’m pleased to let you know I’m doing well. During the years, it has been personally humbling for me to face my imperfections. The Lord knows that I’m trying to be a better person, and He continues to guide my path. So, until we meet again, either in this life or the next, I love you Christine, and remain your best friend,