"The white man's happiness cannot be purchased by the black man's misery." - Frederick Douglass

Thom has been staying with us for nearly a week. Over the course of these past seven days, his tough, street-smart demeanor has melted away to reveal a kid who's really, just beneath the surface, a nice, caring, sensitive, guy.

He's helped cook dinner.

He's helped me clean my room.

He goes outside and often plays with the dogs.

We've all watched movies together.

He's still got his problems, but his most basic needs are now being taken care of.

There's just one other, new, problem Thom now faces: though he's living in a safe, secure space just outside Jane's home, he's a black guy in a white part of town.

Thom likes to go running in the mornings. He gets up early, borrows some sneakers and leaves Jane's cul de sac before I've woken up. Before the sun begins to scorch Grahamstown, Thom runs down Bedford Street, past St. Andrew's, the wealthy, elite, boarding school whose sports fields line both sides of Bedford.

About halfway down the street, there are guards who stand outside the St. Andrew's rugby field. He tells me he's been asked each day what he's doing here and told by the guards to "go back to the location." He tells them he's living in the cul de sac just a couple hundred meters away, yet, each day, he still gets stares, still gets asked questions, still is not believed.

We were walking down Bedford Street yesterday and St. Andrew's was having a field day complete with horse back riding, a paintball ring, water slides and a rock climbing wall. The people came in droves; dozens of BMWs, Audis, Mercedes and new, high-end shiny SUVs lined both sides of the street. Guarding the cars of the rich were the poor of South Africa. As we walked by, some of the car guards looked at Thom and his friend, said a couple words in Xhosa, and then looked back at me.

I asked, "What was that all about?"

The two boys knew these ladies. Thom and his friend told me, "We told them we live up here now. But they didn't believe us," they said laughing, then continued, "They do now because you're with us."

My white skin allows me to walk virtually unnoticed down Bedford Street. I walk home from school each day and smile at the guards outside St. Andrew's as I pass them. I've never once been questioned.

Occasionally, there will be car guard along the street as well. I say hello, ask how he or she is doing and continue toward Jane's. I've never once been asked where I was going.

Thom's black skin sets off all sorts of alarms in this part of town. He can't even run down the street without receiving disapproving stares, and having to endure degrading comments and questions. He's black, he's running, and he's not in the township. Though he has nothing in his hands, and is wearing some old shorts with a pair of ratty sneakers on his feet, in the mind's of these guards, he must have stolen something.

I'm white. I belong on Bedford Street. Thom is black. He doesn't, unless of course, he's found to be walking with somebody (like me) with an acceptable skin pigmentation.

It's been more than a decade since white rule ended here. But still, in post-apartheid South Africa, a young, black guy running in certain sections of town is guilty until found walking with a white man.