“When I asked her where she was from, she would say, ‘God made me,’ and change the subject. When I asked her if she was white, she’d say, ‘No, I’m light-skinned,’ and change the subject again.” -The Color of Water, page 21

I was about five years old when it happened, though I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. My mother protected me- shielded me- from it. Much like McBride’s mother had shielded him from the truth of race. Because the truth can be devastating as an adult. It’s even worse as a child.

It was a normal day for all of us kids in the condos. We had spent it lounging about the greenbelt catching butterflies, rolling down the grassy hills, playing Tag and Hide-and-Seek. We were content. Happy. And that’s when it happened.

As I reflect back upon it, maybe it was because we were so genuinely happy that it happened. Maybe it was because we were so carefree and innocent.

It started with the sirens. I remember that. We had pulled the flowerbeds up, looking for some sort of bug- rollie pollies, I believe- and that’s when they first resounded in our ears. They were distant, a slight murmur in the air at first. We took notice, but continued our hunt for bugs. We always heard sirens, but they never affected us. They were never going to hurt us. We were children. We were invincible. And what did hurt us could be easily healed with a simple kiss from our parents. That was our panacea.

It was when the sirens grew louder that we realised something was wrong. It was because while we heard the siren’s blare double, then triple, then quadruple in strength, we never heard it diminish in strength.

As we all looked up in confusion, Kayla saw the ambulance zoom past our aisle, followed by the firetrucks and squad cars. While I didn’t see them, I saw the brilliant reflection of their flashing lights in a nearby window. We all wordlessly agreed to put halt on our rollie pollie collection to figure out what all the commotion was about. To figure out why these firefighters and policemen and EMS workers were intruding upon our little world. Little did we know that finding out what was wrong would lead to the corruption of our peaceful, naïve world.

We hastily ran into the parking lot and spotted the intruders going down the road past one, two, three aisles, then stopping. That third aisle. It was so familiar. I knew what it was, but in my state of shock I couldn’t form the picture in my mind. It was there but I could not comprehend it. Then the EMS workers appeared with a person on a stretcher. A female. And we all turned to Britlan, who’s eyes had already began turning red, the tears flowing freely down her face.

Ana. It was Britlan’s sister Ana. And she was on a stretcher being slid into the back of an ambulance. She was dead. She had to be. We were children. The only reason an ambulance comes for you is if you are dead. But she couldn’t be. Ana was only thirteen years old. Thirteen-year-olds don’t die. Only old people die.

All the things I knew were conflicting with each other which led me to seek out my mother. She knew everything. She could make sense out of the jumbled mess swirling within my head.

I broke away from our group and pounded my bare feet against the hot concrete as I rushed to get to my mom. I felt moisture slide along my cheeks as my vision began to blur. Instinctively, I wiped at my eyes with the backs of my hands, careful to not get any of the dirt ground into my skin into my eyes. My own tears poured then. I made note that I would have to inquire my mom about that, also. Ana wasn’t my sister, so why was I crying?

I spotted her outside our house conversing with the rest of the adults. I quickened my pace towards her and slammed myself against her body, hugging her close to me. With my face buried in her thigh I proceeded to scream muffled, illegible questions at her. She squatted down to the ground after much effort of prying me off her and pulled me into a hug, rubbing my back and telling me to breathe. It was magic. My tears stopped and I unleashed my reel of questions at her again.

Calmly, she told me Ana wasn’t dead. All that had happened was she accidentally swallowed peroxide. I was still confused, but once my mom told me Ana would be okay- that everything would be okay- I dismissed all else. I let it go.

In the years after that I would often times think about that day’s events. I first came to the realisation that what happened hadn’t been accidental as my mother said. Ana had ingested that poison on purpose. Some time after that I found out the name: suicide. I had been distraught and angry at first. I was angry with Ana for doing that on purpose. For her attempted suicide that brought down my whole world. And I was angry with my mom for lying to me. But I finally came to terms with it all.

It was my own curiosity that resulted in the destruction of my world, and it was my mother’s lie that was to help reinforce it. The truth can be traumatic for anyone. My mother simply want to keep me from devastation. No five-year-old should have to know that their best friend’s sister swallowed a whole bottle of peroxide so she could rid herself of life. They say what you don’t know can’t hurt you. They were right.