In the late sixties when the civil rights movement was going strong in the south, I got my first "Afro." My mother and aunts almost died when they saw it. My aunt said, "Everybody knows you are black, you don't have to wear it on your sleeve." But I did. I couldn't march or go on sit-ins, but I could do this. The truth was I didn't realize until then that I had been a victim of prejudice even though I grew up in the north. And I was mad.

My realization of this fact came when my children began to question why it was that when they spent vacations with their aunt and uncle in upstate New York (Westchester County) they were never able to go swimming in public places.

I spent my summers, for as long as I can remember, with my aunt and uncle in Westchester. During all this time we never went to any public swimming areas, even though they existed. I never questioned this. I never questioned a lot of things.

There were two main places we ("colored people") could go swimming in the late 30s, 40s, 50s and 60s in that area of Westchester County. One was a place called "Sheep's Dip," which was a small body of water purportedly used about a century before for dipping sheep. I have no idea where the water came from or where it went, but it was clean and cold and that was all that mattered. The other place was called "The Jewish Colony." In the summertime Jewish families would rent bungalows on a lake in Goldens Bridge, New York, near my aunt and uncle's home. At night we were allowed to go there and swim.

There were other similar instances of prejudice that millions of others and I just accepted. For example we could swim at Orchard Beach in the Bronx, but we couldn't change in the locker rooms. Palisade Amusement Park in New Jersey was off limits to us. But until the late 60s I never acknowledged such prejudices, because I argued I had never been called the "N" word. My Afro said, "I'm Black, and I'm proud. I'm not colored or Negro anymore."

Most of the time when we were in elementary school, we were in the same class. So we did homework and played together after school, taking turns at each other's home. Sometimes, when we were playing outside, and the ice-cream truck might come, or we'd want to go buy something from the candy store, we'd call from the sidewalk up to my aunt "Mimi" in our fifth floor apartment. We had a nickname for her. We'd yell ensemble, "Mrs. Carrot!" at the top of our lungs, and she'd come to the window and throw some change down wrapped up in a handkerchief. Then we'd make our purchases and thoroughly enjoy them.

Ursula had a birthday party once. I was invited, as well as another neighbor, an Irish girl that didn't go to our school, but was a playmate of ours. After the cake and ice cream, opening of presents, and playing some games, this Irish girl and I were invited to stay for dinner. I later found out that the Irish girl's mother refused to allow her to stay if I stayed. Ursula's parents were adamant that I stay.

Unfortunately we started getting split up in the 5th grade when they tore down our old school which was a wood frame structure built in the 1800s. We moved to a fairly new, huge, red brick building a good way from where we lived. Ursula's mother allowed her to walk by herself. But "you know who was not." My family found an escort for me -- an older neighbor who was in junior high school.

We were put in separate classes, and were never in the same class again in elementary school. In junior high school we were sometimes in the same subject class, but at that time we began to socialize differently. She started to hang out with white kids and I began to hang out with "colored" kids. So we'd wave and say "hi" to each other in passing. It was all beginning to change. Our friendship would soon be over.

Ursula and I went to the same high school, but we were on different tracks. At the same time we started dating and going to different parties. Once in a while we would go to school together on the same bus and get a chance to talk, but this was on the rare occasion. We graduated from high school in 1953, and shortly after that Ursula's family moved to New Jersey, and eventually my family moved to Brooklyn. Somehow we lost track of each other.

It wasn't until sometime in the late 60s, when I was on a field trip with my Cub Scout troop that I found her again. We had stopped at a rest stop in New Jersey on our way to Washington D.C., and I looked up Boetticher in the telephone book. I found the number, called it, and spoke to a very surprised and happy Mr. and Mrs. Boetticher. They gave me Ursula's number and new name and I called her. She was very happy but there was something in her voice that told me we could never be friends again. I was sad, but I have nothing but good memories of those years. I wish it could have turned out differently, but I'm grateful for the time we had.