Bud Grossmann's Words of the Week Week of March 6, 2005
	Boy in Ft. Wayne (Eyes), 1970 © 1970, 2005 by Bud Grossmann

Tuesday, December 3, 1996

Dear Gramma,

     The first phase of my career in marbles lasted but a day. As the eldest child in my family, I had no hand-me-down toy reserves. It was store-boughten goods that I proudly brought to Parkway Elementary School in Hyattsville, Maryland, on an early spring morning in 1956. My marbles were "puries"—translucent orbs, each in a single color: red, gold, green, crystal-clear, and a blue as rich and deep as spilled ink. I had thirty of them in a plastic bag with the price still on it.

     Puries were prized. As soon as I entered the grassy schoolyard, three older boys—I was a first grader—welcomed me to join their game. They weren't playing "funsies"; they were playing for keeps. By the time the school bell rang, I hadn't won any of the other boys' agates or cats' eyes and had lost all but a dozen of my puries. For the remainder of the school year, I watched.

     That summer our family moved halfway round the world to my father's new Army assignment in Tokyo, Japan. After school started, I decided to give marbles another try. Dad had taught me to hold a shooter in a way that gave it more speed, and I was receiving some coaching, too, from a new friend. William Johnson was full of zest and confidence. Besides being an accomplished marbles player, William was quick and graceful in other sports. On weekends he was taking—he casually mentioned—horse riding lessons!

     William often came to my house after school, where he gave me pointers on marbles strategy and usually allowed me to win—he had plenty to spare. Soon I was playing well enough to venture into the schoolyard without my coach; I began to amass a trove of my own.

     One day William invited me to his home. I vaguely understood that he lived in another part of the Army post because his father was an enlisted man, while mine was an officer. My mother said of course I could go. "Be back by dark," she added.

     We rode our bikes. At the Johnsons' house, we went in the back door, and the steamy scent of soy sauce, noodles, and fishcake washed over us. A Japanese woman at the stove turned to us and smiled. The maid, I thought. We had one, too.

     "Hi, Mom," said William, offering his cheek to receive a kiss. Oh! I looked at my friend's almond eyes and realized, for the first time, he was Japanese! His hair was curly, though; maybe that's why I hadn't noticed. William introduced me by the name I used in school. "Mom, this is my pal, Gordon. Is Dad here?"

     "Happy to meeting you, Go-ru-den-san," said William's mom. She bowed, and I bowed in return. To her son she said, "Daddy nap now. You wake up okay."

     The living room was dim and still. Roll-down window shades let only a little late-day light leak by. As I followed my friend into the room, I saw no one, but William spoke. "Hi, Pop. Here's Gordon, my friend from school."

     Sofa springs creaked, a huge form rose before us, and a booming bass voice hailed me. "Gordon! Pleased to meetcha!" I stepped back as something pale moved in front of me—the palm of an outstretched hand. The back of the hand was dark as strong coffee, and so was the arm attached to it, as were the enormous shoulders beyond, the shirtless chest, and a friendly face with a grin that glowed. Good golly, I marveled speechlessly, William's father is a Negro!

     In the forty years since that day, I have seen mixes and marriages of every color and hue. But a white boy is a white boy for a long, long while, I guess. I still find myself startled from time to time, I must confess, when I first meet folks who look different in the flesh than they appeared in the certainty of my mind.

     My love to you, dear Gramma.

                        Love,
                        Buddy