You know I thought playgrounds were where we were supposed to form our first and most lasting impression. Yet, we as kids don't emphasize differences in race or skin color until adults point them out, perpetuating the unfortunate and unnecessary cycle of racism.
             I could not hide from his pain if he wanted to. I was nine years old. My family had just moved from a lager city on the east coast to a suburb on the west coast. Like most new comers, I found it difficult at first to make friends. Several other children lived on his block, but every time he tried to get close, they ran away. I think much about it, however, especially after I met another nine-year old boy named Wesley who lived four houses down and across the street. Wesley and me shared a common interest: baseball.
             One Saturday afternoon, Wesley and me went to the park. We had just watched a baseball game on television and was looking forward to playing in a make- believe World Series. I pitched the ball to Wesley who was crouched down as a catcher. As the ball came whizzing across home plate for a strike, Wesley gave the play-by-play: "Strike three and the batter's out." We boys laughed and took turns pitching and catching, hitting, and running.
             I had not noticed at the time, but I was the only African-American child in an otherwise all-white neighborhood. Even Wesley was white, but then, I never had to worry about the color my skin or that of someone else. It had never been an issue. "I just went to the park to play ball with my friend," I recalled. "It never crossed my mind that someone was looking at me and thinking that I was black and that I didn't belong in their neighborhood."
             As we continued to play catch' a third boy came over to pick a fight with me. "He started calling me 'nigger' this and 'nigger' that. I was sort of getting upset, but deep down inside I felt sad about it. I ...