When I think about growing up in the 1970s, I think of colors — the many different colors that worked together in harmony — my purple bedroom carpet, the pink wallpaper in our powder room, and our harvest-yellow kitchen appliances. It seems crazy now, but somehow, it all worked (the 70s rocked).

I was in the fifth grade when my parents had a pool installed in our backyard. It was everything. On hot summer days, our private oasis was filled with neighborhood kids, not to mention how fitting it was that the word “pool” rhymed with the name of my street, Kule (pronounced Cool) Road. We couldn’t have planned it any better.

We lived in the Washington, DC suburbs, and like many parents in our upper-middle-class community, my father worked for the federal government and my mother was a housewife. My best friends were Ally and Nina. We lived on the same side of the street, our colonial-style houses three in a row. Even with so many commonalities, my best friends and I had an uncommon bond, which brings me to the other colors I think about — ours. I’m Black, and Ally and Nina were White. As a child, that didn’t seem like a big deal to me. I never dwelled on my race or that of my friends, although my mother made sure to teach me that ‘Black is Beautiful.’

It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the three-way bond I had with my friends was quite remarkable. So was the fact that we lived in the same community.

Our friendship marked the early stages of a major shift in American policy, birthed out of the sacrifices of those who fought for Civil Rights. It had only been less than three years since Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. The sting of his death was still fresh. Mourners had splattered their grief and anger across several city blocks in DC, including the renowned 14th and U Street corridor where my parents frequented as teenagers. Still bearing the appearance of a war zone, the area was only 11 miles from where we lived on Kule Road.

Leaders of The Black Power Movement sought to extend what MLK called “the arc of the moral universe” using a more in-your-face strategy. White resistance was strong. It was a rocky time for the country. Still, change had come. New legislation was passed and many in the country were optimistic, albeit cautiously optimistic. Although my friendship with Ally and Nina represented hope, Kule Road reflected something that was more precarious.

At a time when many White families were leaving our nation’s capital in droves by booking seats on the White Flight to the suburbs, thousands of middle-class, Black families also zeroed in on those same areas in search of good public schools and homes with grassy lawns in safe neighborhoods where they could start to build generational wealth. My parents were in that number. In fact, they would’ve moved to the suburbs sooner, had discriminatory housing practices not prevented them from doing so.

They were forced to wait on legislation, which finally came in the form of the Fair Housing Act of 1968. When Mom and Dad first walked into the neighborhood sales office, the builder’s salesman and the white couple he was assisting, all looked up at them in horror. You would’ve thought my parents both had six eyes. It mattered not that my father was a respected Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Air Force. The salesman was not cordial or cooperative until he realized my parents weren’t going anywhere.

This was nothing new to them. They had been turned away from realtors and rental offices many times before. However, this time was different. They had a legal right to be standing in that suburban sales office. Ultimately, my parents issued a formal complaint to the builder after the salesman unsuccessfully tried to discourage and mislead them. Shortly afterward, the salesman was fired and Mom and Dad were free to select a lot on which to build their dream home. They chose one with a large, flat backyard shaped like a triangle — the perfect setting for a future swimming pool.

There was a house under construction next door on the right, loaded with added features. However, when the family discovered we were black, they never moved in. Surely, they lost money after backing out of the buyer’s contract. Apparently, that was worth the cost of not having Black neighbors.

Then, a White family from Louisiana moved in directly across the street around the same time that we moved into our home. After a couple of years, and after a few confrontations involving their children (I first heard the N-word at 6 years old, when the daughter used the slur to verbally assault my 8-year-old sister), the family moved away. Good riddance. The new family that moved in, and the ones that remained on the block, lived in harmony. We were 13 families strong: 7 White, 5 Black, and 1 Brown. Our short street that literally ran down the center of the neighborhood was the embodiment of diversity.

In my mind, Kule Road was a model for what all communities should be, then and now. We were families who genuinely got to know each other, embraced each other, and where parents looked out for one another’s children.

My street wasn’t a place where folks arrived home and offered half-hearted greetings before disappearing into their respective homes. It was quite the opposite. Parents stood outside and had long conversations. Kids played Hide and Seek, and Red Light Green Light, rotating between our large backyards. We had block parties in the summer, went Trick-or-Treating in the fall, and canvassed the community singing Christmas carols during the winter holidays. We had New Year’s Eve gatherings at each other’s homes, and on snow days, we kids made a long train with our sleds and braved the steep, icy sidewalks, as our parents nervously looked on.

There were countless times when Ally, Nina, and I bounced back and forth between each other’s homes for sleepovers — staying up late after watching our favorite TV shows like The Brady Bunch and Welcome Back, Kotter. Funny story: It was at Ally’s house where I first watched All In The Family. As any good friend would, Ally offered a disclaimer beforehand, “Archie doesn’t like Black people,” she warned. I quickly realized that’s why my parents never let me watch the show.

It was also in our bubble that my best friends and I experienced each other’s cultural traditions. Ally’s family was Jewish. At her house, I witnessed her family’s Hanukkah celebrations and ate peanut butter and jelly on Matzo during Passover. Over in Nina’s Italian American household, I feasted on her mother’s impeccable homemade pizza and ate zucchini blossoms that she picked from their garden and fried. Who knew you could eat those? I also learned about the family’s Catholic customs, such as Catechism and Communion.

At my house, my friends had the privilege of tasting my mother’s soul food, including her famous sweet potato pies. Yes, people — sweet potato, not pumpkin — and as we played with our Barbies (our respective dolls looked like each of us), we could hear Mom in the background playing A.M.E. Zion church hymns on our piano. There were also those days when Ally and Nina stopped in while Mom had just washed my hair and was using a hot comb to put my frizzy strands into submission. That always took forever. I’m sure my friends came by concerned, wondering why they hadn’t seen me outside all day. They certainly got schooled on the intricacies of Black hair care.

As we grew older, my best friends and I grew apart (Ally’s family moved away), but they will forever hold a special place in my heart and so will my neighborhood which, as I grew older, started to look more like our street demographically.

When it was time to choose a college I realized that I had a longing. After being among the small group of Black students in school for my entire life up until then, I decided to attend Howard University. I wanted to have the experience of living on a campus filled with other mocha-hued faces. I was tired of code-switching in order to fit in with everyone, and no longer did I want to explain my hair or my music. I just wanted to be…and going to Howard was amazing.

I learned Black American history that went much deeper than what little my teachers taught us in grades K through 12. I studied literary icons such as W.E.B. Du Bois and Amiri Baraka. I learned about the African Diaspora and I was empowered by the truth — that Black American history didn’t start with slavery. My ancestors were brilliant, wealthy, and they ruled over many countries in Africa. I learned to be proud of my history just like other cultures are unapologetically proud of theirs.

I cherish my college years, yet I also appreciate having grown up with White friends and knowing people from different cultural backgrounds, thanks to the uniqueness of the DC area. Both experiences have enriched my life in a way that has made me more informed and compassionate. I’m certain that my White neighbors and peers, who got to know my family, as well as the other Black and Brown families in our community, benefitted in the same way.

Here’s the thing — unity and the capacity to want the best for everyone are cultivated through relationships. We should be able to see ourselves in anyone, even if they don’t look like us, merely because we’ve taken the time to get to know them. I recently read that seventy-five percent of White Americans do not have any meaningful relationships with Americans of color. Our neighborhoods and schools are more segregated than ever. So, here’s my open letter:

To Whom It May Concern:

I love America, yet it’s divided and that’s a problem for all of us. I believe the solution will require you to be brutally honest about who your friends and neighbors are. Developing relationships with people who don’t share your background may be uncomfortable and it isn’t a cure for racism, but it can start the healing process in our wounded country — a country marred by the stripes of division. When you grow to care for someone and discover common ground, you’re more prone to speak out against injustices, and that’s important for all of us.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” — Martin Luther King, Jr.

It’s been over 50 years since we first moved to Kule Road, and most of the original families have moved away. I’ve lost touch with Ally, but every year I exchange Christmas cards with Nina and her family, and once in a blue moon we run into each other.

My father died several years ago and my mother just recently passed away at the age of 91. She and Nina’s mother and a few other moms from the neighborhood kept in touch (even meeting occasionally for lunch) until the day she died. Those wonderful neighbors were all in attendance at her funeral.

Six years ago, after living outside of the DC area for 20+ years, my husband and I moved to the town where I grew up. I was shocked upon realizing how much the ethnic landscape has changed.

Earlier this year, National Geographic named our suburb one of the most diverse places in the nation, and WalletHub.com just ranked three towns in our area among their Top Ten for the most ethnically diverse cities in America, right along with New York, NY, Los Angeles, CA and Houston, TX.

Our home is part of a new, walkable neighborhood that will soon bring retail shops and restaurants to the area. If Kule Road was a model for what a community should’ve been in the 70s, then my new neighborhood is a model for such a time as this. The residents who’ve moved here are Black, White, Asian, Latino, North and West African, Afro-Caribbean, gay couples, young families, empty nesters, and singles.

On any given day, you can go to the nearby shopping center and hear several different languages. The residents here work hard and they are proud.

Several years ago, I was driving through the community with my son, who was then a young teen. I started telling him about the history of my hometown; how originally it was where White veterans moved their families after World War II and created the suburban middle-class with assistance from the GI Bill; how in the 70s and 80s the public schools were predominately White. My son looked out of the window at all of the Black and Brown students who were leaving the nearby school for the day, and thoughtfully asked, “Does that mean the White families moved away?”

I had to pause because I just never thought of it that way. But, if you look at the demographic changes in our county over the past three decades, the answer was obvious. In fact, when I think back I witnessed the beginning of this shift.

I’m reminded of a handful of my White friends’ families that moved away for no apparent reason, to areas of the county that were farther from the city, more rural and less diverse. In one case, a family moved into a much smaller home in an area that was mostly White. That didn’t make sense to me at the time. Now, I understand.

Self-segregation is still a thing. Psychologists say this type of willful separation is quietly prevalent among white Americans and is the result of something called Group Threat Theory, the need to be distanced from people of color because of some perceived threat that doesn’t even exist. It’s this type of thinking that will continue to divide America — unless the pattern is changed.

If you have a choice of where to live, where will you go? If you have the opportunity to establish a friendship with someone who doesn’t look like you, what will you do? Are you willing to challenge what you’ve been taught to believe about other people?

The future of our country is riding on your choices.

I hope you choose harmony.

  • To protect the privacy of others, I’ve changed the spelling and/or names of some people and places mentioned in this story.