It was a beautiful August morning. The sun was brightly shining on my sunglasses while my mother drove the U-haul truck to a warehouse in Indianapolis. As my mother drove down the streets of Indy, I looked out the window and began to realize that the mixture of people was no longer a mixture; there was only white.
    "It's a little different here than our neighborhood, huh?" my mom asked.
    "Yeah," I said.
     When we arrived at the warehouse, I had to peel my arm off the side of the hot door like a burnt sausage off a skillet. There were not many cars in the parking lot, and I could see the heat waves. As we walked up the boiling pavement, it felt like we were walking through a scorching desert. When we walked into the warehouse, there were a million electronic appliances to choose from.

     About every 15 minutes, a salesperson followed us around and asked if we needed help, as if we were stupid or criminals. My mother really dislikes it when salespersons constantly ask if we need help; she feels if she needs their help, she'll ask for it. Finally, after about two and a half boring hours of looking for any scratches or marks on the dryers and refrigerators that might fit best in our new apartment, my mother picked a dryer and refrigerator that were just right. She found a salesperson.
     "Well take these," mom said.
     "Ok," he said and he rang up our purchase. "You can pick up your stuff in the warehouse around back."
     "Thank you," mom said in a nice, friendly voice and we walked across the scorched pavement to drive the truck to the back.
     When we got to the back, there were about three open spaces for picking up appliances. My mother chose the first parking spot she saw, which was by a white family's car. We sat there for a few minutes. We saw several warehouse workers come out and load people's stuff, but no one came to load our purchases. When one of the warehouse guys walked by our car without stopping, my mother opened the door and called out to him. "Excuse me," she said. When the guy kept walking, she yelled a little louder, "Excuse me!"  The guy stopped. He looked back at her over his shoulder. "Hey," my mom said, "can you give us a hand?" He just stood there looking at her. She finally walked over to him.  She showed him the receipt for the appliances she had just bought.
     "All right. We'll be back in a minute," the man said. While I waited for my mother to come back, I looked over and smiled at the white lady in the next car, but instead of smiling back, she frowned at me like I had something hanging from my nose. I waved to her, but she just turned her head and looked away. At first I thought she was having a bad day. Then a few minutes later, two other men who worked at the warehouse walked by our car. They didn't stop, but they looked at us like we were criminals or something.  At that point, I wondered if maybe something was on my face, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw nothing. At the time, I had only spent nine years and some months on this planet. I knew nothing about racism being around.

     Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. We sat there watching people get their appliances and leave. We seemed invisible to them. As I sat in the car, burning up and listening to one of those boring radio stations my mother likes, I was thinking we should leave. The warehouse workers kept walking past our car, but never stopping. After 30 minutes had passed, my mother got frustrated and got out of the car again. "Excuse me," she said politely to the next warehouse guy, "do you know when well get our purchases brought out?"

     "I'm not sure. I'll check and let you know," he said.  Five more minutes passed, and we saw the guy walk over to another car. When he walked past us again, mom asked again with an attitude, "Hey, when can I get my purchases brought out?"
     "In a minute," the guy said.

      "I'd like to speak to the manager," she said. I could tell she was beginning to get upset because she started to get that don't- bother-me look.

      "Can I see your slip again?" the guy asked. Mom handed the paper to him.

      "I'll be back in a minute," he said. Five minutes later, the guy and another man opened the big warehouse door and dragged out our dryer and refrigerator. They packed our appliances on the truck.
      When we left the warehouse, I described to my mother what the other people were doing.
     "They're racists," she replied.
     "What's that?" I asked. I had never heard the word before. I was only nine.
     "Never mind," she said and kept driving.
     That was my first encounter with racism. It was just a small slice of reality that everyone isn't going to be as nice as you, your friends, and your family might be; and that just because you look nice and politely smile at others, it doesn't mean that others will treat you the same. This situation made me feel very out of place and confused. I didn't expect those people to react as they did. We are all civilized, intelligent, caring, peaceful people . . . or at least that is what I used to believe.