“houseplant” whenever you made up games.
But how weren’t we supposed to see another person’s skin? As kids, we noticed
everything.
We knew, for example, that only Tabitha Cohen could roll her eyes back and fake a truly convincing epileptic seizure. Gregory Dupree was double-jointed and could dislocate his own thumb. Ricardo had a scar like a piece of dental floss from his wrist to his elbow from the time he ran through a plate glass window. Chieko ate strange and frightening seaweed for lunch. Peter could play “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” with armpit farts. Karis had a special condition that made her eyebrows fall off.
In the backyard one day, Michelle, Adam, Juan, and I tried to figure out how, exactly, to be color-blind.
“Okay, look at me,” said Adam, balancing precariously on the rim of the jungle gym. His skin was the golden brown of pancake syrup, and the rest of us squinted at him, trying to make him appear translucent. “Do you still see it?”
“Mm-hm,” we nodded.
“Still black,” said Juan.
“Try me!” I volunteered. Adam, Michelle, and Juan screwed up their faces and squinted at me fiercely.
“Still white!” they chorused.
William, Adam’s fifteen-year-old brother, sauntered over to us, followed by his friend Georges.
“Ay, Adam. What’s up? Skins,” William said, slapping Adam’s hand, then running his palm smoothly across it. He walked around the jungle gym and “gave skin” to Juan, Michelle, and me, too, which made all of us feel enormously grown-up and privileged and worshipful and cool. “You all okay over here?” William asked.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Adam. Then he squinted up at him, practicing.
“We’re trying to be color-blind!” I explained.
“Huh?” said William.
“Satchel the Banjo Player said we should all be color-blind,” Adam said.
“He said we shouldn’t see people’s skin,” I said. “So we’re trying not to.”
“So far, it isn’t really working,” Michelle said.
“Yeah,” said Juan, squinting up at the sky and lolling his head back and forth like Stevie Wonder. “So far, everyone’s just a little fuzzy.”
William and Georges looked at each other.
“Ho, shit, man,” Georges said, shaking his head. He exhaled with a whistle, then threw his basketball against the wall and caught it on the rebound.
“Color-blind? Are you kidding me?” William hooted. “You’re supposed to pretend you don’t see who people are? You supposed to act handicapped? Shit. That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
He leaned down and draped his arms around me and Michelle conspiratorily.
“Look. Let me tell you something,” he said gently, squeezing our forearms in a brotherly fashion. “Every day of my life, I
know
that I’m black. And Georges here, he
knows
he’s Puerto Rican. And both of us, we
know
that you two are white. And
you
should, too. In this world, everyone’s gotta know who they are and where they come from. Understand? Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not important. Because it is.”
Then he stood up and grinned at us. “I don’t want any of you pretending to be blind, you hear? Not color-blind, not blind-blind, just 20/20, you got that?”
Obediently, we all nodded. He smiled and made a “Right-on!” fist at us, and we all made one back. Then he and Georges headed off to play basketball.
Sure enough, as we got old enough to walk to school by ourselves, we started to see things. Not just things like Puerto Rican girls wearing communion dresses. Things like the white proprietor of the corner bakery giving my brother and me free Swedish candy when we stopped by after school, but ordering our friends Jerry and Tremaine, two black kids from our building, to leave if they weren’t going to buy anything.
But mostly what we saw was that, while the adults around us might have been singing “Joy to the World” and reading aloud stories like
George Washington Carver: Father of Peanut Butter!,
a lot of kids in the
But how weren’t we supposed to see another person’s skin? As kids, we noticed
everything.
We knew, for example, that only Tabitha Cohen could roll her eyes back and fake a truly convincing epileptic seizure. Gregory Dupree was double-jointed and could dislocate his own thumb. Ricardo had a scar like a piece of dental floss from his wrist to his elbow from the time he ran through a plate glass window. Chieko ate strange and frightening seaweed for lunch. Peter could play “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” with armpit farts. Karis had a special condition that made her eyebrows fall off.
In the backyard one day, Michelle, Adam, Juan, and I tried to figure out how, exactly, to be color-blind.
“Okay, look at me,” said Adam, balancing precariously on the rim of the jungle gym. His skin was the golden brown of pancake syrup, and the rest of us squinted at him, trying to make him appear translucent. “Do you still see it?”
“Mm-hm,” we nodded.
“Still black,” said Juan.
“Try me!” I volunteered. Adam, Michelle, and Juan screwed up their faces and squinted at me fiercely.
“Still white!” they chorused.
William, Adam’s fifteen-year-old brother, sauntered over to us, followed by his friend Georges.
“Ay, Adam. What’s up? Skins,” William said, slapping Adam’s hand, then running his palm smoothly across it. He walked around the jungle gym and “gave skin” to Juan, Michelle, and me, too, which made all of us feel enormously grown-up and privileged and worshipful and cool. “You all okay over here?” William asked.
“Uh-huh,” nodded Adam. Then he squinted up at him, practicing.
“We’re trying to be color-blind!” I explained.
“Huh?” said William.
“Satchel the Banjo Player said we should all be color-blind,” Adam said.
“He said we shouldn’t see people’s skin,” I said. “So we’re trying not to.”
“So far, it isn’t really working,” Michelle said.
“Yeah,” said Juan, squinting up at the sky and lolling his head back and forth like Stevie Wonder. “So far, everyone’s just a little fuzzy.”
William and Georges looked at each other.
“Ho, shit, man,” Georges said, shaking his head. He exhaled with a whistle, then threw his basketball against the wall and caught it on the rebound.
“Color-blind? Are you kidding me?” William hooted. “You’re supposed to pretend you don’t see who people are? You supposed to act handicapped? Shit. That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
He leaned down and draped his arms around me and Michelle conspiratorily.
“Look. Let me tell you something,” he said gently, squeezing our forearms in a brotherly fashion. “Every day of my life, I
know
that I’m black. And Georges here, he
knows
he’s Puerto Rican. And both of us, we
know
that you two are white. And
you
should, too. In this world, everyone’s gotta know who they are and where they come from. Understand? Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not important. Because it is.”
Then he stood up and grinned at us. “I don’t want any of you pretending to be blind, you hear? Not color-blind, not blind-blind, just 20/20, you got that?”
Obediently, we all nodded. He smiled and made a “Right-on!” fist at us, and we all made one back. Then he and Georges headed off to play basketball.
Sure enough, as we got old enough to walk to school by ourselves, we started to see things. Not just things like Puerto Rican girls wearing communion dresses. Things like the white proprietor of the corner bakery giving my brother and me free Swedish candy when we stopped by after school, but ordering our friends Jerry and Tremaine, two black kids from our building, to leave if they weren’t going to buy anything.
But mostly what we saw was that, while the adults around us might have been singing “Joy to the World” and reading aloud stories like
George Washington Carver: Father of Peanut Butter!,
a lot of kids in the
Similar Books
