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The Future of the American Dream

Nina Boseley

When I was a child, I dreamed of one day living in a house with a two-car garage. A house with a basement where my friends and I could practice music together.

I was fortunate enough to live in a neighborhood where children could play almost wherever they pleased. That was because my parents fought for better playgrounds; I was raised to believe that I should have the same access to playtime.

My parents knew that something was wrong when I was throwing temper tantrums at recess. I couldn’t understand why I was being singled out. After all, all the other children got to kick balls around.

The problem was that I was white.

Still, every morning I went to school with a sunny smile. I wore happy colors and enjoyed outdoor activities. I even enjoyed the school dance. And as the summer ended, my dreams of the future were bolstered with words like “future plans” and “proms.”

But all that changed the night my parents told me. I was the first to know.

They told me that they had to move to an area where there were no neighborhoods like ours. The streets were much wider. The yards smaller. And the neighbors more homogenous.

They told me that if I wanted to go to the same school, I would have to play by the unwritten rules that only whites were allowed. I would have to stop playing ball with my friends, because the black children didn’t know how to play like I did. I had to stop fighting on the playground, because the black kids weren’t allowed to fight.

I was the first one to know that I was never going to have a house with a garage.

The Future of the American

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