My sister saw their car and shouted, “Oh no, you are not riding in that!” The car seemed to limp and its grill had been reattached with loose rope, but I wasn’t image conscious; besides, I really didn’t care what kind of car Vickie’s family owned as long as it took me to the fair to see Jermaine Jackson. (Not only did we see Jermaine’s show but he waved at us from the stage.) Vickie and I had become best friends. During the summer of ’86, I spent more time in her neighborhood than I did in my own. In the process of our bonding, I asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She answered, “On welfare, like my mother.” I don’t know how my face responded as my mind raced for something to say. I had never conceived of someone having “welfare recipient” as a career goal. In fact, I had never known anyone who received welfare. I was aware that Vickie and I were being raised differently—I was being raised in a Huxtable home and she was being raised in squalor. I never judged her family, never felt “better than,” never even thought to categorize her as anything other than my friend. Vickie was fun and her family was gracious, and that was all that mattered to me. I can’t say the same for other members of my family. They teased me for years about that time I went to the fair with the “Beverly Hillbillies.” And before that summer turned to fall, my mother informed me she would no longer take me to visit Vickie. Hurt and confused, I asked her why she wouldn’t allow me to see my friend anymore. My mother said she didn’t like me hanging out with poor people.
Posted inFlash Fiction
