Small Town USA The Smoldering Fires of Hell

The 45-minute trip took them through some parts of the South that Juliana had never seen before. Alongside the corn and tobacco fields were poor homes, with weathered siding. Sometimes she could see the black residents resting on the shady open porches, escaping the scorching midday sun.

Julie noted that there were distinct areas where everyone was black. There were other areas where no residents where in sight, but by the looks of the housing and cars, Julie knew they were white. This kind of racial segregation was not as pronounced in Puerto Rico, although she was familiar with the wide discrepancy between rich and poor on her native island and in New York.

All of a sudden she looked in the rearview mirror, as if realizing for the first time which side she was on. In Puerto Rico, her mocha skin and fine features were the objects of desire for her many suitors, dark or light. Julie was a beautiful Caribbean woman who thought of herself proudly as "Puerto Rican."

In multicultural New York, Julie never felt different. At her job at the EPA, she was always attending meetings to encourage minority professionals, and she had black superiors. In New York, she rarely thought of the color of her skin, except when picking out makeup or a new outfit. She lived in a Manhattan apartment where racial issues hardly ever came up.

But here, in what was a new environment to her, she felt black. She felt she could relate to the people she saw and she suddenly said out loud, "I'm one of them." That knotted her stomach. She knew she would have to endure the humiliation of racial bias, from both whites and blacks.