On a cool, autumn, late afternoon, more than 20 years ago, after making a successful business presentation in northeast Ohio, I headed back to Niagara Falls, stopping for lunch in the quaint downtown of a small city.

McDonald’s was nearly empty, with only three tables occupied. A man sat alone at one table. At one of the other two tables sat two women chatting away; while at the third table sat three, well behaved, 4- or 5-year-olds, quietly enjoying their lunch. I took a seat a table away from those little fellows, whom I assumed were sitting behind their mothers.

As far as I knew, I was the brownest person that I had seen in that town, but one of the children appeared to be a mixed-race boy that sat at the table in front of me. I watched them for a moment, and then like the man at the other table, I dove into my hamburger and my reading material.

Soon, the women had finished their lunch and told the kids to put on their coats. They promptly obeyed and began jumping and dancing their way into their winter wear, pushing against the air beside them while attempting to slide their arms into their coat sleeves. The women chatted on.

One of the kids had bounced his way all the way back to where I sat. When he finally felt that his hand break though the end of his sleeve, he checked his success and found that his tiny fist was only inches away from my face. He froze for a moment as his blue eyes curiously examining me. I broke his intriguing stare by simply saying “hi.”

With that, the little fellow ran back to his friends. I was afraid that I had scared him — but not so.

There, he grabbed the jacket sleeve of the mixed-race boy and, without a word, he pulled him to where I sat. The golden-skinned kid, with his hazel eyes and curly hair, reminding me so much of my own god son, looked at me with no more interest than just to recognize my presence. This time, fearlessly, the little white kid spoke. His words shook the souls of both his friend’s and mine. He asked, “Is that your dad?”

Both the boy and I winced. First, his eyes opened wide with embarrassment, then faded to a near-icy stare that slowly melted into the first indications of a tear. Nevertheless, transfixed by a heavy moment that no 5-year old deserves to bear, he continued his stare. A thousand thoughts went through my mind, and I hurt with this little fellow. Recognizing our similarity, and the difference between his friend and him, the 5-year-old dragged the boy to me — the browner of the two men dining there.

Maple Avenue School — 1958. I was the only “light-brown” kid in my kindergarten class. In the sweet bliss of childhood, no one had told me that I was any different from any of the other children in the room. I thought us all to be “just kids.”

Mrs. McCormick had stacked construction paper and strands of different colored yarns on the back table. She told us we were going to cut circles in the paper, draw our faces on them, and then paste yarn on them for our hair. We all then lined up to take a sheet of paper and a length of yarn that was our hair’s color.

I took a length of black yarn; and, like the other kids, I also took a sheet of orange paper. That is when I nearly bumped into the little blond-haired, blue-eyed girl behind me. Our eyes met, and like the gold-toned little boy in Ohio, I gave her a casual look. And just like the little white boy in that McDonald’s, the little white girl said something that shook my soul. She announced, “You’re not orange! You’re brown.”

Then I hurt just like the little mixed-kid that later stood before me in that McDonald’s that morning.

In kindergarten, I looked back at the table, and sure enough, off to the side, there was a single sheet of brown paper. I exchanged the orange piece for it and carried it forward with me all the way to Ohio that day. Looking mostly at the white boy, I smilingly said, “No, I am not his dad.”

Then, a few years before my own sons were born, I looked back into the moist eyes of the little, mixed-boy, I paused, gave a bigger grin, and slowly and softly said, “But, if I ever had a child, I’d want him to be just like you.”

The wind swirled the autumn leaves in the street between the nearby buildings and the restaurant. But somewhere within the sphere of the human experience, there, on a far off horizon, a storm quietly passed. The other man sipped his coffee; and the children’s mothers continued their conversation, seemingly oblivious to the bridging experience that the boys and I had just had.

A mere yard away from me, on that cool afternoon, I saw a hazel sunrise of delight spring in the eyes of that child. The tear puddle quickly dried. In his heart, blue birds sang. The corner of his ketchup-stained lip curled, displaying the smile of his shiny, tiny, white teeth. His cheeks dimpled; and for a moment, I felt like I was really his dad, and I then wished for the warmth of his hug as he stood there smiling at me for a moment or two more.

Then, in utter delight, he looked once more at his friend, and still smiling, he turned and skipped away to the table where the women chatted.

I have never returned to that town. But what seems like a thousand times, both those children have returned to me. They are a part of “the dream.”

Of the many things that the little white kid recognized, one was that, though his friend was like him, it was all right to recognize their differences, talk about them and yet remain friends.

In kindergarten, my brown skin was more orange than were the white kids’ — theirs being more pinkish. But someone had taught them they were orange and we were brown; and that, at a time that it mattered, we were different.

I was happy for the hurting from the little girl in kindergarten, some 25 years prior — it later prepared me to bring joy to the little boy at a McDonald’s, some two states away. Perhaps, because of it, in their lifetimes, and their generations, as Dr. King once dreamed and I believed, we will all be “just God’s kids.”