By Ken Hamilton
On a balmy summer’s eve, I sat poolside at the home of Dan Kilmer, the then-deputy supervisor of the Town of Lewiston, along with his Danish-born wife, Annette and their young brood. Though I had known Dan for some time it was my first time at his home and I was anxious to meet his family.
Dan and Annette met when he was in the Navy, and they later had a wonderful family, which included a bright, curious and rambunctious 6-year-old, whom which both kept a watchful eye during my entire visit. His name was Dane.
Dan smiled at some of his son’s antics, grimaced at others, and disciplined him for still others. While his son’s curiosity about me was evident, he had not yet said anything that may have offended me so I took Dan’s reciting of, “It’s no telling what will come out of that kid’s mouth” as mocked embarrassment, rather than the apologetic warning that he likely meant it to be.
I thought he was over-concerned. For me, most children are perfect children, they do what children do ... perfectly! I accept them as such.
When little Dane finally became comfortable enough with me, his curiosity overcame his innate fear and he was ready to further examine me much closer than his guarded observation would permit — the first African American that young Dane had visit his home.
Little Dan had quit his subdued frolic between his mother and dad and now had his blue eyes firmly fixed upon me. A pall came over all of us, much like a change in barometric pressure signals an oncoming storm. There was a moment of quiet and the parent in all of us knew that the little tow-haired tyke was about to do something. Our conversation grew more disjointed and neither speaker nor listener really did much of each.
Like a cat staring at a bird hopping along the ground, coming closer and closer and closer, Dane came until he was by my side and staring into my face in obvious bewilderment. He paused a moment, then fearlessly raised his hand into the air as high as he could reach, and began to pat my head.
“Dane!” his mother shouted in astonished admonition. But, Dane patted on.
“It’s alright” I said, “He needs to know.”
Dane was learning two lessons at that point. The obvious lesson that, as different as it was, it was still hair and two, he could explore the differences between himself and others without fearing that exploration. In his discovery he proclaimed, “Your hair feels funny!”
Dane then returned to his father’s side and patted his hair; “It’s not like my father’s hair.”
Dane had recognized me as ‘a man’; different than his father but equal. He could have easily compared my hair to his own, which, other than color, was of the same quality of his father’s. But he did not. His, he knew, was the hair of a child, and his dad and I were men.
“So,” I said, “my hair feels funny?”
“Yes,” he replied.
His parents were both quiet and nervous. While my hair was different, my hair wasn’t the most obviously different thing between Dane, his family and me. I thought that we may as well get it over with so that we may fully enjoy the rest of our evening.
“What about my skin?” I asked. Dane’s confidence soared after feeling my hair, and he walked over and leaned on me as he rubbed his hand up and down my bare forearm. “It feels funny, too” he said. Then he turned to his mom and began feeling her skin. “Not like my mom’s. Hers feel right.”
Both Dan and Annette were shifting uncomfortably in their seats. “OK,” I said, “Now, feel mine again but this time close your eyes and feel it.”
Dane turned from his mother, smiled once again leaned against me, closed his eyes and rubbed my forearm. “Now” I said, “how does it feel?”
In amazement, Dane announced, “It feels right, now. Just like my mom’s.”
We all gave a laugh of relief.
Dane was right. When he was comfortable and he felt with his heart open and his eyes closed, not that which he could see, but that which he could only experience, the differences disappeared. I left Lewiston that day feeling richer than I felt when I arrived. Some friends had shared their home with me but a little boy had shared his heart.
Wouldn’t it be great if we all were as Dane was; like a little child when it comes to things that we don’t have to be so adult about? Dane had recognized our differences and to him they didn’t matter. He liked what we had in common. We paid each other a great deal of attention thereafter and we accepted each other for what we were.
When it was time for me to go I made a special point of saying good-bye to my new little friend. “Good-bye, Dane. I gotta go.”
“No you don’t!” he said, as he sat at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m not?” I asked. “No,” he said.
“Then what am I going to do?”
“You are staying right here,” he said.
“I am?” I asked.
“Yeah, you’re going to spend the night.”
I looked at Dan in wonderment. Dan slowly shook his head and we both laughed. “Dad, can he sleep over tonight?”
No matter how much I tried to explain to him that I could not, he would not have it and continued to ask me, even as I drove away.
As this story indicates, I took a little bit of Dane away with me. He is this story. But, apparently, I left some of us all there with him, too. I visited frequently, and in the autumn, his mother informed me that Dane was then in school. To his delight, his first teacher was African American. He took to her like a fish to water. Annette credits Dane’s very positive experience with me as the chief reason for that delight.
The dream is still alive. There will be a day when we will all judge each other by the content of our characters and not by the colors of our skin. Children like Dane stand as the ushers at the doorway to that day.
Ken Hamilton is a Niagara Falls resident. Contact him at kenhamilton930@aol.com.
