Things aren’t always black and white…Call me Cy. I’m ten an’ live with Mama an’ Daddy on our farm outside o’ town.

Don’t much happen around here, s’you probly ain’t never heard of it. I ain’t got no other family, but in 1921 I got me a friend who moved here.

We b’came friends on account o’ us havin’ the same first name. They ain’t too many people name o’ Cyril.

He was borned on a plantation an’ when his mama an’ him was freed, they left. But he come back after his wife passed an’ he retired.

My friend, Mr. Cyril Bratton, his last name is the same as the town we live’n.

Both’re named for the family what used to own the plantation nearby. He ain’t never met his grandchildren, but he an’ me, we go fishin’ an’ he gonna teach me to drive when I git big enough an’ he teachin’ me about lawyerin’.

Kind o’ like a real grandfather. He tells me about his wife s’ I can help him t’ remember her an’ I tell him about my little sister.

That influenza was hard on people. Lot o’ folks don’t like us bein’ friends on account o’ me bein’ white.

Mama don’t much care for it. Don’t git me wrong, Mama’s a good lady an’ she ain’t usually like ‘at.

As for the rest, I ‘on’t really care what y’all thank. S’you can keep it t’ yo’self.

They’s just so many rules, like about who can talk to who. I ‘on’t know anythang about this Jim Crow fella, but I shore hate all his rules.

And theys almost as many secrets as rules. Seem like ever’body got secrets.

Mr. Bratton said some secrets last s’long they start t’keep themselves.

. Never can seem t’figure out these secrets.

. .