This article was last updated on the 13th May, 2015 by Patrick Carpen.
I was walking home from school one afternoon when I was about 12 years old. My friend Zalika and her dad were coming from the opposite direction. At the corner of the street, walking in front of me, was a little boy without shirt, about 10 years old, and very dark in complexion. He was one of the dark skinned East Indians of Tamil ancestry.
I must admit that this youth was genuinely “black” in color. As the little girl Zalika and her dad, Mr. Khan passed him, the little girl started to giggle uncontrollably, pulled his dad’s sleeve and exclaimed “Oh my god, dad! Look how black this boy is!”
Zalika and her dad went on their way to the market without further incident, but the boy waited for me to approach. As I passed near to him, he approached me. I was about to ask him what his problem was but he spoke first. “Who’s black?” he asked me in a hostile manner.
I hestitated to speak. I didn’t know what to say. He repeated his question “Who’s black?” sounding a bit more aggressive this time.
I still hesitated but after insisting another time, I answered him “well you’re black aren’t you”?
The boy then proceeded to fire a punch at my chest. I backed off. I didn’t want to get into a fight or hurt the kid.
“Do you want to go me a round“? he asked me, firing another cuff.
I didn’t respond. I just stood there, amused, motionless, and allowed the little boy to go on his way.
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