You see, I don’t care what color your skin is but if you start thinking that your color is better than the rest I will give you a coloring book and send you to the kid’s table.
Let’s see how well you color your earth with only one tone.
Let’s see how gorgeous your future is when it is only in black and white.
Let’s see how long it takes before all your pictures look the same, how long it takes before you stop coloring out of boredom.
Because if the world was only made of black or white, what color would our sunsets be?
What color would a moonlit path through an autumn forest be?
What color would we bleed?
Because on the inside, we all look exactly the same.
What color would we be when our skin has long since dried up?
What color would our tears be as we wept, not only for the people we traded in for crayons but for the beauty we never saw.
If we are so obsessed with our skin colors, how are the white and black crayons the least used in the box?
Why weren’t humans colored anything from purple pizzazz to firetruck red with marigold shading?
You see, we are not the color of our skin; we are instead the color of our imagination, painted as vividly as a hopeful sunrise, as wondrously as the eye of a storm, as stunningly as we pretend to be.
You can paint yourself however your imagination desires and perhaps some of us are so obsessed with black and white because those are the only colors we could ever imagine, the only colors you spend your entire life trying to cover up your marigold shading.
Our hearts should not have lines to be colored inside of.
Our souls should not be surrounded by whitewashed walls.
Our minds should not constantly calculate “controversial” colors.
Our eyes should not see anything other than a kaleidoscope of color.
You see, racism is nothing new.
But now racism is treated like a metaphorical boogeyman; that if you’re “bad” he will come for you and build a wall to keep you out.
Except I shouldn’t call it a metaphor because that would be His eyes were rubies in the morning light.
But today his eyes are ruby red, not because of the light that shines upon them but because they are filled with blood and unseen sunsets, unseen birthdays, unseen children who wonder where their father has gone.
The only thing he can see is his family wearing all black as they lower him six feet into the ground.
No, racism is nothing new.
But it is nothing old, either.