I was outside in the hot but refreshing summer breeze, my hand cradled tightly in my Mother's hand. We were exiting a large courthouse where it had just been decided that I would be living with my Mother and her new black husband.

I saw a few lingering white people outside, a couple of policemen and a group of black people who were there to greet Mom and her black companion. They huddled around us as if from experience and escorted us to the cars. I barely had a chance to breath in the long awaited summer freshness after having endured the thick musty atmosphere of the courtroom for what seemed like hours, before I was once again stuffed into a dark cavern, the back seat of a long dark sedan, thick with heavy warm air.

I slid into the back seat and up against a big black man who was sitting next to the window and staring out of it. He turned his head and looked down at me. I smiled big but his face didn't change expression; he just turned back to looking out the window. Right behind me came another young boy, a black boy not much older than me. Then another big black man got in the back seat as two other black men got in the front seat. Nobody looked at me and no one said anything. I just sat there and kept silent.

Nobody acknowledged me. Mom was not in the car I was riding in, she had ridden in another car with my two sisters. The black people in my car didn't show any concern for a little white boy crying his eyes out over his confusing and bewildering circumstance. No one bothered to care, no one bothered to wonder, no one even bothered to tell me to be quiet. No one talked to me or comforted me or questioned me or even accused me. No one challenged me or threatened me or picked on me. It was as though I was not there; they were delivering a package and that was it. Now I knew I was alone.

Occasionally we would pull over, drive through a dusty parking lot, then pull out again and keep going. I could see the car ahead of us, the one with Harold, my Mom and my sisters in it, pull over first and we would follow. Harold, by the way, was the name of the black man who had captured my Mom. I could see Harold get out of the car, go inside and come out and we would all drive away once again.

Occasionally I could hear negative mumblings and complaints coming from the black passengers of my car. Nothing really intelligible but they were definitely not pleased. It seemed we had been stopping at restaurant after restaurant. Harold would go in and explain

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