I couldn’t stand the stares. I could ignore everything else, but not the stares. We went to the zoo and the Jersey shore, we flew to Atlanta for a family reunion — me with Gran, her with my parents, a normal family. And I couldn’t take people gawking at her.
My sister Sloane was born June 18, 1977, the hottest day of the year. I was 6 years old. My parents rousted me that morning, told me I was going to Gran’s house, and less than an hour later, Sloane, a healthy baby girl, greeted the world. I proudly carried her around like a doll.
Sloane drew glances from the beginning. We lived in an apartment in an all-white neighborhood, and she was much more light-skinned than my parents and me, with red hair. We were used to unwanted attention in our neighborhood — my Big Wheel was stolen, my dad’s nice sports car got scratched up, people would yell racial slurs at us from their car windows. My parents feared I’d experience racism at the all-white local school, so they used Gran’s address to send me to the school they had attended and where their friends’ children attended.
[For more of this story, written by Kellie C. Murphy, go to http://www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2015/03/19/taking-care-of-my-disabled-sister-wasnt-a-burden-the-pity-was-what-i-couldnt-bear/]
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