According to Crayola, I'm
somewhere between apricot and desert sand.
But they never have a check box for that.
I don't remember a time when the color of someone's skin helped me decide who they were, but I know that, at one time, it did.
(I'm admitting that for the first time. It's funny how seeing letters on a paper paint your shame somehow simultaneously releases it.)
I do know that somewhere between my first bra and my driver’s license, I started to feel like there was more to the world than the white-washed farm-town where I grew up.
And I do remember the time, the very moment, that I realized two things that fundamentally changed my life and the direction in which I was headed:
But they never have a check box for that.
I don't remember a time when the color of someone's skin helped me decide who they were, but I know that, at one time, it did.
(I'm admitting that for the first time. It's funny how seeing letters on a paper paint your shame somehow simultaneously releases it.)
I do know that somewhere between my first bra and my driver’s license, I started to feel like there was more to the world than the white-washed farm-town where I grew up.
And I do remember the time, the very moment, that I realized two things that fundamentally changed my life and the direction in which I was headed:
1) The power of literature is unequivocal. 2) The whole
world is the same.
It was an autumnal,
Midwestern afternoon. I was entering my 4 o'clock Introduction to Spanish
American Literature course as I looked out the window to be met by the setting,
amber glow of a yearning sun begging me to appreciate it.
(And since I didn't particularly enjoy the professor, and surely hadn't read the required material, I was a touch passed tempted...)
But I buried the desire with the prospective guilt I would have felt. After all, my parents from that frosty farm-town worked very hard to help send me to school.
And so there I sat—inside a cold cinder-block, wheel-less hamster cage discussing the Cuban revolutionary, José Martí.
I was trying to read ahead (as in read what I was supposed to have already read and analyzed.) while the professor was on a tangent--on account of enjoying the sound of her own voice--when I read It.
I read It again.
I underlined It.
I read It again.
I put my pencil down in humiliation.
I began to feel embarrassed, ashamed, lamentable, and then empowered.
Embarrassed because I was in utter disbelief that I was incapable to come to this conclusion on my own.
Ashamed of humanity that, even more than a hundred years after It was written, the idea has yet to make an impact.
Lamentable because of the effect of It being ignored. People were (are) being hurt as a result of It being discounted.
But It left me empowered because I was conscious of the ensuing enlightenment.
(And since I didn't particularly enjoy the professor, and surely hadn't read the required material, I was a touch passed tempted...)
But I buried the desire with the prospective guilt I would have felt. After all, my parents from that frosty farm-town worked very hard to help send me to school.
And so there I sat—inside a cold cinder-block, wheel-less hamster cage discussing the Cuban revolutionary, José Martí.
I was trying to read ahead (as in read what I was supposed to have already read and analyzed.) while the professor was on a tangent--on account of enjoying the sound of her own voice--when I read It.
I read It again.
I underlined It.
I read It again.
I put my pencil down in humiliation.
I began to feel embarrassed, ashamed, lamentable, and then empowered.
Embarrassed because I was in utter disbelief that I was incapable to come to this conclusion on my own.
Ashamed of humanity that, even more than a hundred years after It was written, the idea has yet to make an impact.
Lamentable because of the effect of It being ignored. People were (are) being hurt as a result of It being discounted.
But It left me empowered because I was conscious of the ensuing enlightenment.
It: "no hay odio de razas porque no hay razas."
Ethereal. Ineffable...
To attempt to describe Its impact with a complete, cohesive thought would be a grave injustice.
People say “well it's human nature to fear the unknown.”
That's true.
But the problem is that we have manipulated that idea into an explanation of hatred, a justification for prejudice, instead of for the basis of acceptance, the foundation of tolerance.
We...
From burnt sienna
To antique brass,
From shadow
To banana mania,
...are all the same.
There isn't an unknown to fear. We are all people.
There cannot be hatred amongst races because there are no races.
Just people.
To attempt to describe Its impact with a complete, cohesive thought would be a grave injustice.
People say “well it's human nature to fear the unknown.”
That's true.
But the problem is that we have manipulated that idea into an explanation of hatred, a justification for prejudice, instead of for the basis of acceptance, the foundation of tolerance.
We...
From burnt sienna
To antique brass,
From shadow
To banana mania,
...are all the same.
There isn't an unknown to fear. We are all people.
There cannot be hatred amongst races because there are no races.
Just people.
