Mrs. Henderson

I was a troubled child.
Besides my dysfunctional home life, I was intellectually several grades ahead of my peers. I didn’t know how to interact with people and I didn’t fit in socially.
From the beginning of my school life, I had regular counseling sessions. Every time I started going to a new school, it wouldn’t be more than a few weeks when I would be told that I would be seeing someone. Large schools would have counselors on the staff, and small schools would have visiting psychologists. Either way, it was so normal to my school life, that I never questioned it or thought it odd.
I did get a clue to the process that led to it the year I started 6th grade. That was the first time I had a different class for each subject, which meant I had several teachers. Shortly after the school year started, one of my teachers called me aside and said, “Your other teachers and I have talked it over. We know something’s wrong, but we don’t know what. We’ve decided you need to see the school counselor once or twice a week”.
Ho hum. Just a regular part of my school routine. Nothing new.
Then in 9th grade, I went to live with my grandmother for the school year. Another part of the state, another new school.
My counselor that year was Mrs. Henderson. Of all the counselors I’ve had in my life, I came to love Mrs. Henderson. I was starved for affection and positive attention, and she just radiated compassion and love and understanding. If she had told me she was going to adopt me, I couldn’t have packed my bags fast enough!
Then partway through the school year, one day she told me she wanted to come to my house that coming Saturday and meet my grandmother. I readily agreed, so she called my grandmother and made the appointment.
Oh yes, I did understand it was a professional visit, but that didn’t matter. Mrs. Henderson was coming to my house! I was overjoyed!
She came knocking at the door that Saturday, right on time. I was so happy to see her and have her sitting right there in the living room.
She and my grandmother talked for a good long while. I don’t remember any of their conversation at all. I don’t even remember how much of it included my input. All I remember was, that I was happy she was there.
Then it was time for her to go. Goodbyes were said all around, then she went out the door.
My grandmother peeked through the window for a couple minutes. I know now she was making sure Mrs. Henderson was well out of earshot.
Then she turned on me furiously. “Why didn’t you tell me she was a Negro?”, she demanded.
My happiness vanished, replaced by confusion. I felt like I must have committed a terrible sin. I didn’t understand. I don’t understand. Mrs. Henderson didn’t come in the role of a black woman. She came in the role of school counselor.
All these decades later, I still don’t know what the protocol is supposed to be. Am I supposed to “warn” people that someone is a different ethnicity? Unless the visit somehow relates specifically to a person’s race, I don’t see the point. But I’ve never understood society’s rules, so I must be missing some subtle clues.
I’ve been labeled “non-conformist”, “socially awkward”, and a few less savory terms. But I have never been able to follow rules, socially or otherwise, that make no sense.