Until I was eight or nine years old our neighborhood was the kind of place where people didn’t lock their doors. We were all lower middle class and mostly white. We knew almost every family that lived on our street by name. The neighborhood always felt safe and the threat of violence was totally absent from our minds. We existed in not as much of an oasis as in a bubble. Our city had already changed outside our imaginary borders but our neighborhood still had only one singular story.

Life provided a few hints of stories that were different from my own during my days at Fairmoor Elementary School. Damon came to our school in the first grade. He was the first African-American I can remember meeting in person. Kids would run up to him and ask to touch his hair because the texture of it was different from their own. Damon was quickly accepted as "one of the guys" when kids realized although he looked different, he was really just like us.

A few years later, just a few weeks after the start of the school year, the Principal introduced Sivaley (pronounced, civil-lay) to our third grade class. Sivaley was a shy Asian boy who didn't speak a word of English. We discovered he and his family were recent immigrants from war-torn Vietnam. At first Sivaley seemed so foreign to us that he may as well have been from another planet. He spent the first few weeks in our class not saying a word to anyone and drawing tanks and artillery on the blackboard, which were likely the last memories he had of his country.

My friends and I took Sivaley under our wings and made sure he had someone to hang out with during recess. I had a Superball, which was a small rubber ball that would bounce hundreds of feet in the air. When I handed this ball to him it was the first time I remember Sivaley relaxing and attempting to communicate. It was as though playing with the ball made him forget everything else that was running through his head. I lost track of him after third grade and often wonder what happened to him.

Our neighborhood changed pretty significantly at the start of the 1978-79 school year. This was the year desegregation of the school system began in Columbus, Ohio. I'll never forget when the outcome of the voting was announced on the radio during my summer vacation. That day I sensed fear and disbelief amongst the adults in my life. The decision was made and it was a done deal, for fourth and fifth grades I would be bused into one of the worst neighborhoods in the entire city. As a child of nine my stomach felt like it was twisted into knots as the end of Summer approached, I was terrified.

The first day of fourth grade I realized it was only a fifteen-minute ride to a completely different world. The bus driver, Mrs. Love, greeted us with a warm smile as we boarded. The stereo blasted R&B and funk music the entire way to Fair Avenue School. It felt like we were transported right into an episode of *Soul Train*, more accurately the *Soul Bus.* 

As we approached the school I saw a neighborhood that was much different from our own. Houses were boarded up, yards unkempt, and trash littered the streets. The first few days were uncomfortable and were a shock. This was my first total immersion into a story different from my own. It got easier every day. Although it was uncomfortable at first, I consider the education I received at this school, from the curriculum and life-lessons, was among the best I ever have in my life.

By the time I started ninth grade at Eastmoor High School in 1984 our own neighborhood was undergoing a massive transformation. It was the golden age of the crack cocaine epidemic and gangs from larger cities, including the L.A. Crips, had started to move into the east side of Columbus. Law enforcement wasn't prepared. Our neighborhood fell quickly, seemingly overnight, becoming a haven for drug dealing, prostitution, and violence. Everyone who could afford it moved away and we became the minority.

As my teenage years went by I met many different people of many different backgrounds and races. Sometimes life was stressful, I was bullied and tested but, in hindsight it was often a blessing. By the time my junior year came around I was transformed from a shy, 140lb kid with thick glasses to weighing over 200lbs, bench pressing more than my weight, and learned to be fairly good with my hands. 

Eventually came acceptance and sometimes I would be one of only a handful of Caucasian people at parties. These were the early days of east coast Hip Hop culture so I learned to break dance (not that well), DJ (the old-fashioned way with turntables and a mixer), and graffiti. After a while some of these other stories became my own. 

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*(All images were drawn by me, sourced from my yellowed and crumbling 30 year old high school graffiti book.)*


The lesson I took away is there are good and bad people in every segment of society and the only real measure of a person is their character. I appreciate these lessons that have enriched my life in ways that I could never have imagined. I feel much more open and comfortable in new and different situations than I otherwise would have, this has served me well in adult life. 

There is a great divide in the United States and our world today. This divide is fueled by some very powerful people with powerful motives (mainly to divide and conquer) but all of the walls they build exist primarily within the confines of our own minds. The antidote, the first step to building a bridge of understanding is to realize that there is more than one story. Once you realize this it gives each of us has the awesome opportunity to be both a student and a teacher. 

We need to have the courage expand our worlds and immerse ourselves into the stories of others.  Familiarity doesn't always breed contempt; it can also breed compassion, understanding, and even respect. It’s our duty to teach our stories and learn the stories of others. When we can open our minds to this maybe the true healing of this world can finally begin.


### Your comments, upvotes, and shares are always appreciated. ###

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I am an American novelist, poet, traveler, and goofball.  To follow my unfolding story please visit [my website here](http://www.ericvancewalton.net) to sign up for my author newsletter.

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