I grew up in the San Fernando Valley, California. I was very much loved and supported by my parents. However, the childhood I always considered truly happy was the one I had with my beautiful sons. When they were born, so was I.

I am grateful for the fact that my childhood home was one of acceptance and love for all beings; we cherished animals. We lived on a rambling ranch and I had many pets that were rescued and cared for. Our holidays were often filled with people of all races and religions gathered around our table. I never knew prejudice.

So, a particularly wrenching memory I had was in the mid-Fifties when I was traveling cross-country with my parents and little sister and we stopped at a gas station where I saw a water fountain with a sign above it titled, “Colored.” Besides myself, with excitement thinking that the water would actually be colorful I ran to turn on the spigot whereupon the gas station attendant stopped me telling me I couldn’t drink from that fountain. It was for colored people alone. I had absolutely no idea what he meant. Colored people? People with designs and colors on them? No. People who weren’t white. Shocked by the reality for the first time in my life at age ten that people were separated by the color of their skin, I remember sobbing to my parents, and wrote a poem at that time, “Always drink from the same fountain. Always climb the same mountain. Negro, Japanese, Hindu, White should all be friends and never fight…”

I still believe this with all my heart.