excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD, (see Aug 31, 2010)
Home - Daddy was a policeman. He came home many times complaining about the drinking and rowdy behavior of the "niggers" he had to deal with daily, I always connected the misbehavior or roughness with alcohol, not skin color. Yet when he had a chore to do around the house and a dark-skinned person helped him he gave him a bottle of liquor instead of money as payment. Adults do not make any sense!
Africa! It looked so beautiful in the National Geographic - such rich colors, such vibrant hues! I wanted to go there. The only way I had ever heard of anyone being allowed to go there was as a missionary. I wanted to be a missionary. It seemed useless in America to be effective in helping relieve what seemed to be pain, hunger, and mistreatment. My father shouted - then cried. No! He seemed afraid for me. I ran from the room crying. He came to me and knelt beside my bed saying I could do anything I wanted to, just don't cry. I wondered if there was a Tarzan really in Africa? Was he the only one who spoke English? Was there a leader with dark skin? Did any of the dark skinned people wear anything but that wrap around their hips? Maybe I could help there. How shallow was my understanding of my own ignorance.
Yet I was silent.
No comments:
Post a Comment