A Rashomon Chocolate Story

His Version

He was a baby in his stroller. His nurse leaned down to check on him. He saw her finger, thought it was chocolate, and bit it. That is how he tells it: simple, innocent, a baby’s mistake. His family smiles when he repeats it, and he enjoys the familiarity of their reaction.

Her Version

She leaned into the stroller to adjust his blanket. He bit her finger, and it hurt. She did not cry out. She could not. She was a Black servant caring for a white child, and silence was expected. To her, her brown finger didn’t look like chocolate. It was a sting that passed quickly, one moment among many.

The Family’s Version

They know the story well. He tells it at holidays in a meek, almost shy way. They smile back, not with laughter but with fondness. To them, it is part of family tradition, a small anecdote that makes him seem mischievous and connects generations together. They do not mention the nurse.

The Rashomon Version

A child bit his nurse’s finger. He remembered chocolate. She remembered pain. His family remembered a story. Each version carries its own truth, though none tells the whole. Over time, the event became less about what happened and more about how it was told. The stroller, the bite, the finger, the smile at the holiday table, all blur together like an old photograph softened at the edges, passed from hand to hand. History is not a photograph at all but a brochure, designed to sell an image. Its pages can be photoshopped to whitewash what was painful and to print what is pleasing.

My Version

I have a brown finger that I keep at a safe distance from that dude.