I love singing. It was my favorite part of the school morning; a musical charge to rev us up for learning. I was glad to find out that the white children liked singing as much as the children at the colored schools. And just like at my old school, the teacher let us shout out our song requests even though we didn’t raise our hands.
There was also an un-worded truce, where the kid code overrode the color caste. A higher cause than surface skin set the white flags waving. We banded, fifth graders in color disregard, to keep the singing going as long as we could; confederates in our goal of educational procrastination. Our cease fire was honored. Mostly.
“Let’s sing Dixie!” Debbie hollered out.
Oh.
I wish I was in the land of cotton
Is Billy looking slyly at me? Just sing.
Old times there are not forgotten
Keep on smiling and sing real loud. Don’t look at Joyce or Wallace, the other black kids.
I wish I was in Dixie
A fist is forming in my throat. But act like you don’t feel it; that you don’t care.
Hooray!
It’s just a song. And it has a good beat. They maybe don’t know what they’re saying.
Hooray!
Think about the next song. Maybe I’ll call out Rise and Shine.
In Dixie’s Land I’ll take my stand to live and die in Dixie
The words and the smile on my face don’t go together. I feel funny.
They want to sing the chorus again. My chest hurts.
Blonde Linda, red-faced doesn’t sing this time. The pain loosens a bit.
I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray!
The song will be over soon. Then I can relax my face. The taste in my mouth will go away. The fist will unfurl its fingers. Mostly.
Hooray!
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