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Zusatztext "...provocative and gripping..." -- New York Times Informationen zum Autor Jennifer Baszile received her B.A. from Columbia University and her Ph.D. in American history from Princeton University. She was the first black female professor to join Yale University's history department and has been named one of the "Thirty Leaders of the Future" by Ebony magazine. She lives in Connecticut. Klappentext Jennifer Baszile received her B.A. from Columbia and her Ph.D. in American history from Princeton. She was the first black female professor to join Yale University's history department and has been named one of the "Thirty Leaders of the Future" by "Ebony" magazine. She lives in Connecticut. Leseprobe THE BLACK GIRL NEXT DOOR { chapter one } RUNNING THE RACE ON AN EARLY AUTUMN morning in 1975, as fog rolled off the Pacific Ocean and covered the Vista Grande School playground, my first-grade girlfriends and I decided to squeeze in a quick foot race before school began. A row of backpacks marked the starting line and, two at a time, we dashed to the chain-link finish. On this morning I ran against one of my closest friends, Tammy, a freckled white girl with auburn hair. I bunched my large hands into fists and pumped my arms and legs in a full sprint to reach the fence well before she did. I could hardly hide my smile, so I knelt down to pull up the knee socks that pooled around my ankles, not wanting to gloat. Tammy trailed after me, pigtails bouncing, the corners of her mouth down turned in defeat. The warning bell announced the beginning of the school day as we collected our belongings and headed for the sprawling complex of single-story brick classrooms. In the din of children’s voices, silence fell between us, and I struggled to think of a remark to break it. Tammy spoke first. It didn’t matter that I beat her, she explained. I waited to hear what she had to say, assuming she was trying to be a good sport rather than a sore loser. “My dad already told me,” she said, “black people have something in their feet to make them run faster than white people.” The claim rang in my ears like an accusation of cheating or cutting in line. Hours of barefooted play at her house and mine had allowed me to observe her feet and my own. My third left toe was shorter than the fourth one, but her toenails were longer than mine. Our feet were different, but I felt nearly positive that I did not have something hidden in mine. The bickering match that erupted between us had become a full-blown argument by the time we crossed the asphalt and reached the door of our classroom. We appealed to our teacher, Mrs. Branch, a bottle brunette who sported a poor imitation of Farrah Fawcett’s hairstyle. She hurriedly declared that my friend’s father was right—black people indeed had something in their feet to make them run faster. My breath caught as her words hit me as hard as if she’d given me a slap. I tried to protest. If black people had special feet , I thought to myself, why didn’t I know about it? It didn’t sound right. Mrs. Branch ignored the shock on my face and cut across my objections with the order for everyone to take their seats. My jaw clenched. I felt trapped and betrayed. I brooded through the morning and glared at my teacher. Then I scowled at Tammy across the lunch table. By afternoon play period, I felt desperate to settle the matter of my feet. Almost all of me believed that I would know if something special lurked beneath my skin. But doubt kept creeping into my mind because I had been wrong plenty of times. If Mrs. Branch and Tammy’s dad knew something about my body that I did not, then I could retreat from my anger. Mrs. Branch could maintain her author...
