I began to feel a separation from my mother recently. Our beliefs about racism always varied, but I never quite felt the impact of that opposition until I was home last year over Easter vacation.

I guess her prejudices were always present, even from the time I was a small child. I was so young, but at the age of five you think you know so much. The world seems open to you; it's not until later when you realize doors continuously close before you.

I can still remember walking through the mall with my mother, arm in arm and smiling proudly at everyone. As one couple walked past us, arms wrapped tightly about each other's waists, I would turn to my mother and ask, "Mommy, are they in love?" She'd nod her head yes as she'd gently pull me along. This would go on at the sight of every twosome which walked past us.

But her reaction was quite different when I inquired about another couple standing outside of a flower shop. I silently observed his ebony hand reach up and push her golden hair from her ivory face. Again, I asked my mother the usual question. But this time I received no reply. I looked up and repeated my question, thinking she hadn't heard me. Her crinkled eyes were still fixed on the pair standing before us, her expression strained. Though I was too young to understand why, I realized silence was the best option.

Later, when I entered elementary school, the situation shifted somewhat. My mother would come to pick me up in our old Plymouth Volare every day after school. Within minutes, we'd reach our home and walk up our crooked sidewalk. Continuously chatting, I'd eagerly inform my mother of the events in my day. Sometimes she'd sit quietly by; other days, the mood shifted and the tension increased whenever the name Charice was mentioned.

That was in fourth grade, the year when everyone rebelled. Normally my mother would laugh at the tales I told, but this laughter was far from the response I received whenever I mentioned Charice. Charice was a close friend of mine, and the only black member of our class. Without pausing to catch her breath, my mother would compare her to my other friends, saying she couldn't be trusted. Not agreeing or caring enough to listen, I'd look past her gaze and tune out the noise.

These scenerios ended that year when Charice decided to transfer to another school. The reason she gave me was that she just didn't feel like she belonged. Of course I noticed the difference in our skin colors, but I thought her leaving had to do with something else, something less visible. My mother was grateful to have such a so-called bad influence removed from my life.

Maturing and learning, I reached my senior year in high school. At about the same time, my relationship with my mother was becoming increasingly strained. Only talking when necessary, my mother was purposely left uninformed about my life. Following my example, my mother left out many important details within my family's life, including the existance of a group of relatives I never knew.

While flipping through the newspaper one morning before school, a picture caught my eye. It was a mother with five children sitting outside on their porch. Their faces looked hardened as they stared into the camera. The mother and the eldest of the children were white, while the four remaining children were black. I wasn't sure how, but I knew I had seen the mother before.

Glancing down below the picture, I recognized the name of the mother as an aunt who used to live in Ohio. I had seen old photographs of her and a very young child in albums tucked away in my parents' bedroom. I thought it peculiar that we had no recent pictures of this family, at least not within the past 10 years. I had asked about her before, but my mother always dodged my questions.

I grabbed the newspaper and walked into the kitchen where my mother was sipping at her tea. I set the paper in front of her, pointing to where I wanted her to look. She examined the picture, pushed it away, and got up from her seat. Stopping her, I demanded to know why I hadn't been told about these relatives and why I never had the opportunity to meet them. I still remember the chill that went down my spine as I watched my mother's cold stare as she snarled through her teeth, "Because they're black!"

This was the first time in my life that my mother had voiced her prejudice to me. My mother refused to tell me where this family was now living, and I was devastated by the knowledge that I would probably never know why their expressions were so strained. I was being kept from family by a prejudice so deep and so new, yet familiar to me.

I could only guess that my mother's prejudice emerged because of the way she was raised. Children in her generation were always taught to remain with people of their own race, to stay away from people different than them. This fear gradually transformed into a hatred of the different and of the unknown.

Last year my holiday mood was immediately dampened when I came home for Easter vacation to find out that a friend of mine had been killed in a car accident with one other person that Friday night. As I laid on my bed with the tears rolling down my face, I expected sympathy from my mother as she opened the door and entered my room. Instead of words of comfort, she gave her account of why she thought this boy, Michael, had been a problem child.

She knew him because he went to my elementary school, though he was a few years behind me. His mother was white, and his father was black. My mother continued talking about how Michael must have distracted the driver, how it somehow must have been his fault. Getting up, I stared at her in disbelief. Without a word, I walked out of the room, down the steps and out of the house.

My mother doesn't mention her prejudices to me anymore, but I can still see them through the ice-cold eyes and the hardened facial muscles. And most of all, I can see them through the clenched fists, hanging at her sides . . .