A friend shared with me a conversation between herself and an African American woman from Charleston about racial issues growing up and living in the South. My friend was surprised that she had never heard these stories. Most people don’t want to talk about what it was like here not that long ago. I was born in 1951 and am a native Charlestonian. I remember what it was like, but I also rarely share those stories. It is something I would rather not remember, but in light of some of the events going on in our country, maybe it is something those of us who remember should share. This will not be a political statement -- just me sharing my memories of growing up in Charleston, S.C.

I was raised by my grandparents so I was exposed to the ideas and views of a generation once removed from my own. I was often confused by the words and ideas they expressed. My grandmother raised me in the church, and she professed to be a “Godly” woman. I was fortunate to have a minister in that church who did not share their beliefs. This would in time cost him his job.

My grandparents held the view that people of color were good people as long they “knew their place.” “Their place” meant their neighborhoods, their churches, their schools, their jobs and any place where signs said “Colored.” It meant much more than that. It meant that they showed respect (and fear) to the whites. It meant they didn’t question authority or rock the boat. The saddest part of all was that my grandparents and others would tell you that everyone was happy with the way things were.

My earliest memory is riding the bus into town. I was about six years old. I climbed on the bus ahead of my grandmother and proceeded to walk down the aisle to find a seat. Before I got too far down the aisle, I heard my grandmother bark my name.

“Stop! Come back here.” Her voice took me by surprise. We were in public. She only raised her voice like that at home.

“We sit up front. The back is only for the colored. You should know better!”

I don’t know how I should have known better. It isn’t something intuitive. As I turned to walk back down towards my grandmother, I lowered my head. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I noticed the faces of the women as I passed. They had the same expression on their faces; they were ashamed and embarrassed as well.

I remember being downtown and seeing the signs that differentiated the drinking fountains and the bathrooms. Some churches and theaters in downtown Charleston had signs that read, “Coloreds Must Sit in Balcony Only.” Where there weren’t signs, it was understood that only white people were allowed. Department stores had diners and lunch counters that allowed only whites. It didn’t change until after 1960! That was only 50 years ago.

My grandmother and her best friend bowled in leagues, so I spent time sitting and watching. The woman who handled cleaning at the alley was named Francis. She would come by and pick up the drink cups, etc. during the games. One morning she asked if I could hand her a couple of cups that were just past me. I said, “Yes ma’am”.

My grandmother turned and scowled. “What did you just say? You should know better.” (I guess I just didn’t have that intuitive thing going on).

“I just told the lady I would hand her the cups.” I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong.

Grandmother grabbed me by the arm and took me out to the front steps.

“You just sit here and think about what you did. You never call a colored woman a lady, and you never say ‘yes ma’am’. Those are signs of respect.”

I sat outside till the league was done. I still didn’t understand what I had done wrong.

Of course, we had segregated schools. They were referred to as “Separate but Equal.” There was nothing equal about the schools. Not much has changed in this respect in our state, but I promised this wouldn't be a political post, only memories. In 1954, the Supreme Court declared segregation of schools unconstitutional, yet it wasn’t until 1963 that Charleston tried the Freedom of Choice plan to integrate. This allowed parents to choose to send their children to any school. Only 11 children entered this program. I was in the eighth grade. My grandparents immediately filled out my application to send me to private school. They told everyone they wanted me to go to a college prep school and one that offered religious studies. Of course, I was never encouraged to go to college because I was a girl. The truth was that my grandfather said, “She is not going to school with any “n***ers.” My grandparents threw that word around without hesitation.

In the beginning of this article, I mentioned the minister at my church, who was a kind and caring man. No one of color was allowed in our church. Deacons and elders would turn anyone away should they try to attend. We did, however, have an African-American man named James who worked as the church's custodian. The minister and James had become friends and were on a first name basis. The minister invited James and his family to his home on several occasions. The ruling body of the church gave the minister an ultimatum. He was to stop this outrageous behavior or he would be asked to leave the church. He resigned. I was just a young teen. I didn’t understand, but I knew I was heartbroken.

I could write so much more, but I am reaching 1000 words. Maybe next time you see the #BlackLivesMatter, this might help you understand. Maybe the next time someone questions why people are still mad about things that happened hundreds of years ago, you will remember that all these things happened in my lifetime. You know, I never did figure out what I did wrong.