My First Kiss
I’ve never told anyone about this.
When I was a little girl, so young I don’t remember my age, I kissed a little boy. It was between 8 and 9, I think.
I don’t remember his name. He probably doesn’t remember mine, either, and I sometimes wonder if he remembers me at all.
There’s a reason I never told anyone about this first kiss. He was a little black boy and I was a little white girl with racist parents growing up in the South. I knew even then that if I told my mom I had a black friend I’d be in trouble. Telling her I’d kissed a black boy probably would have gotten me whipped. I’m not kidding. For all I know, his parents would have been angry with him, too. Racial lines were clearly divided in my early childhood.
All this time I’ve kept this secret and I just realized it didn’t need to be a secret anymore.