MINERVA: BEYOND COLOR

.... When I was about nine-years old living in Los Angeles, my mother had a "black" maid come to our small two-bedroom house once a week for eight hours to clean, vacuum and wash windows. I looked forward to the one day Minerva would be there. Before my 7:30am walk to school, I'd sit with Minerva for about thirty minutes at our old yellow formica kitchen table as she sipped a cup of black coffee, no cream, no sugar. We really liked each other - even loved each other. I could feel our connection, yet I did not think of it, nor give words to it. We just seemed to know something together - a respect.

She was the first black person I knew really well and personally. Yet, I hardly noticed her skin color, which was a darker shade of black, now that I think of it. She knew who I was inside. She spoke to me as though no age difference existed. Her voice did not change. She looked me in the eyes and smiled a lot. As the time came for me to leave, I stood, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and walk to school with my metal lunch box dangling at my side.

Minerva died when I was about twenty-eight years old. I received an invitation from her family in Los Angeles, inviting me to her funeral. I had not seen her in 12 years. I could have gone but did not. My heart told me I must. My self doubts suggested that it didn't matter if I went to the funeral. Years later, I realized I was more important to her and her family than I knew. Just as she made an impact on my life, I probably did the same for her. We "recognized" each other beyond race and color.