I was four years old the first time I met racism.
Not through history books or news reports.
But from across the street — in broad daylight — while just being a kid.
My mother was young. Eighteen. White.
Still living at home with her parents when she had me.
My father — Black — wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms.
And I, their biracial child, learned early that who you are is often measured by who you’re born to… and which side of town, or family, you come from.
Across the street lived Maureen Finley.
She had just married my Uncle Vinny — my mother’s brother.
When she gave birth to my cousin Vincent, she and the baby were still living at her parents’ house for a while.
I remember being excited.
A baby across the street. A cousin. A bond.
And back then, I thought my Uncle Vinny was one of the coolest people on the planet.
There was a warmth in how he treated me, a big-brother energy that stuck.
He poured love into me at a time when everything felt fragile.
And as a kid, I held onto that.
But there was a boundary I wasn’t allowed to cross.
A porch I was never welcome on.
Because Maureen’s father — Old Man Finley — lived there too.
And when he was home, I knew to stay away.
I don’t remember ever going inside that house.
If I stood too close, I’d get run off — and I’ll never forget the words:
“Get that n***** kid off my porch.”
Just like that.
No explanation. No apology.
Just venom aimed at a child too young to spell the word he was being called.
I didn’t understand the history behind it.
But I felt it.
And I obeyed it.
Because the fear was real.
He told me to stay on my side of the street.
To keep off his grass.
To disappear.
That was the first line I remember being forced to stay behind.
And it came from a man whose family had married into mine.
Eventually, we moved.
But the memory stayed — tucked in the part of my brain where shame and confusion live.
🖤 Reflections from the Block
Years later, when I was eleven, my mother passed away.
And at her funeral — when the ache was still fresh —
Old Man Finley showed up.
Same face. Same posture.
But this time, I wasn’t a four-year-old kid on a sidewalk.
I was older now.
Old enough to understand what I was seeing.
And I was standing beside my grandfather — John Thomas Smith — my father’s father.
A Korean War vet. A union leader. A man who carried dignity without needing to speak it.
His silence was thunderous.
When Finley saw him, something shifted in the air.
“Mr. Smith? What are you doing here?”
And without pause, my grandfather said:
“These are my grandchildren.”
That was the moment.
I watched Finley’s face rearrange itself — recognition, discomfort, maybe even regret.
Like he was putting the pieces together too late.
All those years ago, he hadn’t just chased off some anonymous Black kid.
He had barked at his own family’s kin.
He had pushed away the grandson of a man he clearly respected — or maybe had even worked under.
And he never bothered to ask who I was.
That’s the heartbreak of racism — not just the hate, but the ignorance.
It made him miss what was right in front of him.
It made him treat me like nothing, because of everything he refused to see.
And it made me realize that proximity doesn’t equal acceptance.
We were right across the street — but for him, we may as well have been across the world.
That porch taught me everything I needed to know about America.
That love doesn’t always win.
That family isn’t always protection.
That racism isn’t just cruel — it’s stupid.
And for a biracial boy trying to understand where he fits,
The line between “home” and “unwelcome” was just a patch of pavement.
🔗 Reflect and Share
If you grew up navigating invisible lines — between Black and white, welcome and unwanted, family and fracture — I see you.
Drop your story in the comments, or send it to me directly.
Because some truths deserve to be told out loud.
And some porches were never meant to be silent.
✊🏾
— Michael Smith, ReflectiveMVS.com
#ReflectiveMVS #InsightsUncovered #BlackTruth #PorchStories
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