I know I said I got into a lot of fights in New York; and most of the people there were the same. They loved to fight.
I fought all the time along with them, obviously, and I remembered an afternoon when a black man gave me the biggest black eye I've ever seen. He called me a punk, and told me I was no different from an Eastern Southerner. he said I was a racist.
I had enough white conflict in Tuscaloosa. And besides, all I wanted was a cigarette.
I had become quite dizzy after seeing him run away, and sat down on a stoop of one of the steps to the Empire State Building. I held the right side of my face, to keep myself hidden.
It was then I saw a woman with a briefcase walk right past me.
She was different than the usual working women in town; her hair was above her shoulders, and it was a darker brown. She wore a pantsuit instead of a dress. She spoke in a Southern accent and she stood tall, with no need for high heeled shoes.
I found her quite interesting. She was cute in her own unique way, and she carried herself with confidence, which was something a woman in New York usually lacked.
It didn't take long for me to get into another fight, and it also didn't take me long to head right back to my stoop, at about five in the evening, two hours before sunset. I saw her walk by again and again, with pantsuits of different colors, and with whistles to the same tune.
She sounded like a small bird, which I wouldn't ever expect out of a woman her age; I began to call her Miss Finch. Like a small, delicate bird; a small bird who commonly liked to eat my sesame seeds.
One day, when it began getting darker and colder, I decided not to fight. I worked all day, and picked up a newspaper before I headed home to my tenement in Queens. I had scanned mostly boring business stories and the stock market before hitting the jackpot in the metro section. It was an article about civil rights, and it was written by another small bird.
The Wrongs of Racism: by Jean Louise Finch
I read it over and over, like I never had for a book in school when I still went. It was intriguing, and my eyes were glue to the article until it became tattered.
When the time had come to leave New York for home, I sat on my stoop one last time. The wind was blowing, and Miss Finch kept on whistling. This time, a blond haired man with a formal business suit followed her down the sidewalk.
I ran after them. The man became more desperate as Miss Finch went faster; I became colder as we kept going further from the skyscraper.
Finally, we all met at a crosswalk, and we were in a single file line. Miss Finch, myself, and the blond haired man.
I gathered the courage to tap on Miss Finch's shoulder, after months of seeing her as a stranger.
"Miss Finch?" I asked her.
She laughed, "Yes?"
"I read your article in the paper. I really liked it." I was nervous, and getting a cold sweat.
"Why, thank you! Was it the one about racism?"
"Yes, ma'am!" I stopped, and remembered the man behind me, "This blond man's been lookin' for you for a while now.. I figured you'd know him."
I moved away to expose the man in his true glory. He was handsome, but boyish, and had the bluest eyes for miles around.
"Dill!" She shouted, she ran towards him and hugged him. "Dill, Dill! I've missed you so much! Tell that boy thank you!"
"Thank you, young man, what's your name?" Dill looked at me for one single second, and waited for me to respond.
"Dallas Winston." I said. I waved and walked off, never expecting to see them again. The fact that I had been so out of character made me almost forget about the story completely, and my friends never heard a thing.
That was, until a few summers later. A letter was in my mailbox for the first time in ages, and I tore it open immediately.
"Thank you, Mister Winston. We're getting married. Bless your Texan soul. We'll never forget you."
I smiled, suddenly engulfed in emotion. "I'll never forget you either."