I stared at the clock until I heard the three knocks that I heard every day at approximately 3:10. I had been sitting in the soft comfortable chair for the past half hour and awaited the arrival of my joy. Once I heard the three knocks, I sprung up from the chair as fast as I could, feeling a shooting pain run through my legs. I hobbled a few steps to the door and pulled it open. In front of me stood a young woman. She was about fifteen years old but her faced looked as if she had aged years in just one day. She looked disheveled as her books and papers poured out of her hands and flew away in the wind behind her. My face lit up with a smile as soon as I saw her big blue eyes that looked deeper than the ocean. She cracked a smile back at me and I helped her into the house. She didn’t say anything and neither did I but I knew that she could tell that I was filled with happiness. I scurried around her to find her the snack of her choice. She was very simple. She chose an apple with a side of peanut butter and water. I offered her more food but she rejected it. The only thing she told me was that her day was fine. But her face spoke something different. I walked over to her and embraced her. She embraced back and squeezed me just as tight and she whispered in my ear, “Love you Grandma.”

* * *
I knew that she could tell something was wrong and that I wasn’t in a good mood. I didn’t want to eat and I felt an empty pit in my stomach. She tried telling me jokes and I giggled just so that she wouldn’t worry. I picked up my bags and headed towards that stairs. I had this feeling as if I was going to cry but I knew I didn’t have to. I had mixed emotions—stress, confusion and a feeling of anger grew inside of me. I felt a tap on my shoulder and pain from my heavy backpack ran up my neck. My Grandma’s eyes glared into mine and she asked me to sit down and talk. She began questioning me on how my day had gone. I knew she could tell something was wrong but she didn’t know what.  I began to explain.

There was a moment of awkward silence that she soon filled with the question “What is wrong?” I paused and then stuttered as I collected my thoughts. When I was in school that day, I saw something that brought me anger. My peers and other students at my school were abusing another girl; not physically but emotionally. This young girl, I can’t quite remember her name but I think it begins with an “B”—Becca, Beccy, Betty, but I just can not remember, was being teased for looking different. She didn’t exactly look like the typical high school girl. She was a heavier girl that was considered fat, or in nicer words over weight. She had pale skin with rosy cheeks and long knotty blonde hair that was down to her stomach. I had never spoken to her but she seemed polite and very nice. She sat at the table that was directly across from mine but on the other side of the room at lunch. I could see her perfectly. I watched her as she ate. She only ate a banana and she reached behind her to the garbage and threw out the rest of her lunch. Then suddenly two boys and three girls walked past her. The girls walked over and slammed there hands down on the table next to her. They began yelling in her face. “Are you trying to lose weight?” one girl screamed, “You shouldn’t try, you’re never going to be skinny anyway.” The rest of the lunchroom went silent. The three girls snickered and the boys laughed along too but didn’t think they were doing anything wrong. I continued to explain how the girl ran into the bathroom and started sobbing.

* * *
I stared into my granddaughter’s eyes and could see them fill with water. I wanted to guide her, to help her do the right thing. She placed her head in her hands and starred at her feet as they moved over each other. I tapped the top of her head and when he looked up I helped her raise her chin. Her face was red because she had been rubbing it, her eyes drooped to the sides and her lips curled down. She expressed to me that she wanted to help the girl but she didn’t want to make the young girl feel as if she was helping her out of sympathy. I began to tell her a story from my past. I remember it perfectly. It was September 1951. I was fifteen, just the same age as my granddaughter. It was the first day of school. I enjoyed school very much. My school was mixed, both white and black students attended school in the same building. I walked into Mrs. Keller’s class and I saw a girl that was seated in the seat next to mine. The nametag on her desk read “Connie.” I introduced myself to Connie and she began to tell me that she was so happy that I introduced myself. She explained that she always wanted to have someone she could call a friend. Connie was black. She and her brothers, walked across town to come to this school because they were not allowed to attend any other school near their house. They were white only schools. Connie explained that a white person had never introduced them self to her. I told her that there was always a first time for everything. Connie suffered days in school prior to this one because her skin wasn’t the same color as the majority. Other white people bullied her as she walked through the hallways and she told me that she never felt comfortable speaking in class. I explained to my granddaughter that I would talk to Connie everyday in school and that I would walk with her in the hallway to make her feel more comfortable. Soon, I found Connie and I to be best friends who would tell each other everything. I was Connie’s first white friend—no I was Connie first best friend.

* * *
At first I didn’t quite understand what my grandmother was implying. I wasn’t sure how I was to suppose to become best friends with a girl I had never met that was something that was considered socially unacceptable at my school. But I had to do something.

It was finally lunchtime of the day after my grandma and I had the conversation about Connie.  I sat down at my lunch table and began to eat my lunch. I saw the girl, the one whose name began with a “B.” I waited for the perfect time. After about five minutes of contemplating whether or not I should go over. I convinced myself to get up hoping that I would help her in some way. I quickly walked over to her table. We made eye contact but then she looked down at the ground. I moved more towards her side of the table. She flinched. “Hi. My name is Shannon.” I spoke as my voice cracked. She looked up at me and in the softest voice whispered, “Hi, I’m Becca, nice to meet you.”