Kansas Shelton

Unspoken Privilege

My earliest memory, in which I couldn't have been more than three years old, is of an unknown man getting into my mother's white Pontiac and slowly driving down our road. I was in my mother's arms, wriggling to pry myself from her grip and dash to the tiny community playground a few yards from us. I remember that it was summer and the sun was beaming into our eyes. The combination of sunlight and humidity caused a sticky film of sweat to form on my mother's skin and dampen her clothes. I don't recall her facial expression, so I couldn't tell you how she had reacted or what she truly felt in that moment. But she couldn't have been happy as she stood there, watching the man drive away in our only vehicle--never to return. Long after the white car had been driven out of sight, we stood there in silence. The typical sounds of summer echoing about the small neighborhood around us. The car had been repossessed. My parents had borrowed money on the title and never repaid the debt. Of course, I had not been aware of that then. But that had only been the first instance of my family being left utterly stranded. And unfortunately, it was not the last.