Although I hadn’t thought so before, I was now beginning to believe that my mother was right. She didn’t like them. She didn’t like it when Henrik and I would go down to St. Anna Bay and play near the schooners. But it was always fun. The black people would laugh at us and toss us bananas or papayas. She’d say, when she knew where we’d been, “They are not the same as you, Phillip. They are different and they live differently. That’s the way it must be.”
