They Don’t Call It Mischief When Black Boys Get in Trouble

My white friend Vicki let me live vicariously through her — until she didn’t

Illustration: Jordan Moss

I kicked a little white girl in the head. Her name was Kendra and we were in kindergarten, playing a game of Red Rover in an effort to learn each other’s names. I wanted to make a big splash. The other side joined hands, and as the teacher led everyone in a singsong voice I was overcome. I was dying to show them all what I could do. When my name was called, I ran toward the other side, determined to break those hands apart. Instead of bursting through, though, I decided to do a front handspring. I dove into the other team hands-first and tumbled, so proud of myself in that split-second.

Then I was upside down, and the hands before me snapped open under my weight to let me through. I landed on my feet, turned around, and waited for the applause. But there was no applause. Just screaming.

I was confused at first. The teacher grabbed my arm and told me I’d kicked someone, that my foot had connected solidly with young Kendra’s skull. She was inconsolable. The whole class surrounded her and I was told to go sit in the corner. They called my mother. When she came to pick me up, her whole body shook with controlled rage. She spanked my butt on the way to the car as I cried…