All at once so many thoughts bubbling to the top like a pot of bouillon, yet to children, the stew of spinach is just as unsavory as tackling self-identity. Only a couple memories stand out from that quaint town, highway bisecting the quiet neighborhood and shady grove. I relish the triumph of excellence on spelling tests, a clear source of this writer’s love of diction and multiplayer, handheld video games during recess. Even hiding the digital contraband from Ms. Creedon had its moments.
From quite early on, it seems, all my mother’s coddling left this boy with an insatiable eye for the opposite sex. Or, it could be the childhood innocence, making one oblivious to any superficial difference – I could approach anyone with candor these days precisely because in my youth, a child was hopelessly shy. Whatever the case, the chipmunk cheeks of a fair, emerald-eyed, chestnut haired girl caught my attention – everyone’s – persistently. This girl is popular, someone who could not shake the admiration of the crowd, even if she asked, she’s simply so endearing. It was this girl, one who could attract even woodland creatures, who shared a thought that shattered this author’s perception of depth. “Don’t say black. It makes me uncomfortable. Can I call you brown?” All at once, confidence, or rather, a gross lack thereof, constantly sought cover under a guise, a charade of comedy. In the moment, laughter was all that I managed. What I said, who could tell, but everyone knows I changed the subject. As these words, thoughts, feelings all come up by the bucketful, a well of emotion, this author laments to share, for a very long time, I found myself unfit for admiration. Without verbosity to cover up this naked sensation, like the verge of tears, it was like this ‘black’ me couldn’t be liked, find a relationship, I felt so unattractive to be black. It felt like ugliness, a stain on your white shirt, how embarrassing, no I can’t like you, you’re black! Now even as sadness wells in the eyes, and this puerile confession meets paper, I do not blame that girl for her comment. It began a wonderful journey of self-discovery early on, so it was more a nascent advantage. I am mighty fine, in fact, and I am just beginning to feel the effects.
I am all colors, as physics would have it, the presence of all wavelengths of light. It must explain my expansive taste. I am Finnish for my curt manner with people and fondness of lingonberries, Bostonian for my place of birth, Japanese for my warrior spirit and quest for mastery – blue my favorite hue of eyeshadow on a lady, like the clouds just before sunset, red for my impatience, green for my childish joy and belief in everything and everyone.
These myopic eyes, brown, deep and rich like hardwood or Hershey’s, though unfocused at times, carry the finest attention to detail. I am just about every color you can think of.
“Who took these photos? They’re really good! He did? It’s so fresh, so cool! Damn, that kid’s black!”
