11th Grade WR 121 Narrative Essay

Color Blind

It’s amazing how someone can be so oblivious to the world surrounding them that they literally do not acknowledge the fact that they have a specific skin color. What with the acts of white supremacy dating back to the beginning of life and racism flying in the face of all who wish its stench gone, it’s truly rare to have someone so ignorant that they don’t realize that they aren’t white.

I didn’t realize that I was brown until the fourth grade. To some, this may seem amusing. I assure you, when I found out, it was anything but.

My life drastically changed in the fourth grade, not merely having to deal with my new “color vision”. For the initial part of that year, I lived in California. I was home schooled, led an extremely sheltered life and nothing really distressed me. My human interactions, of which there were few, were limited to my immediate family and the students that I met when I went in to take my home schooling tests. I was happy, content, and above all, I desired to be a world traveler.

We moved to Salem, Oregon during what would have been the middle of the first trimester of the year, and I was moved into a public school. I soon learned that moving was anything but fun, at least for me, and that I should think more on what I had planned to take on as a career. Apparently world travel was harder and more agonizing than I had at first thought. I was incredibly shy as a result of my two and a half years cut off from the world and confined in home school; even so, I managed to make some “best friends”, as all little girls make on their first days of school, and I intermingled with the other kids. When we had moved, my solid looking foundation of life was cracked; I didn’t know anyone, and all I wanted to do was pull my heart out because maybe then it would feel better. Slowly, I began to feel like this new kind of life was right for me, and I stopped resenting the fact that my parents had relocated me without my pre-approval.

At the end of the second trimester, my parents moved us, yet again, out to the Orenco neighborhood in Hillsboro, and I felt like my world had come to an end. To my reluctantly admitted delight, my parents informed me that we had a one year lease on an apartment and that I would finish fourth grade at this new school: Orenco elementary, the Home of the Orcas. I was enthralled. My life was being pieced back together right before my very eyes! I had an apartment that was on the third floor, with a balcony, and I could climb up and slide down the stairs. I had a pool! I was guaranteed a year of staying put in one house, with which to rethink my choice of occupation. My head was bursting full of brilliant future plans of the fantastic fun to be had around the amazing apartment complex. I was already piecing together what would one day be my adult life...

On my first day of school at Orenco, I decided that I was going to take charge of my future, make some life-altering changes and ultimately make scores of friends. My ingenious plan was to change my name in the records, from the horrifying name of Jaecyn, to a much cooler name comprised covertly of my first two initials: JD. I could picture myself sauntering up to the teacher with my new school clothes, purchased by my guilt-ridden parents, and discreetly mention that, oh, by the way, this entry seems to be wrong. Let me just change that for you. And I would smile a smile so sweet, the bees would come flocking.

To say the least, my “ingenious” plan failed me (perhaps it was my lack of charisma and utter shyness) though I did learn my lesson about how the middle of class really isn’t the best time to stand up and nonchalantly notify my teacher that I want my name changed. On a more life-changing note, I also learned what a Mexican is. You see, I had never met one. At least, I had never met a Mexican kid. I’m certain that at one point before this first day of school I had in fact met a Mexican before, but I had not taken note on the fact that Mexicans are brown.

Up until that point, I had my life pretty much figured out. I was going to graduate from college, become a world famous singer on Broadway and move back to California to be reunited with, and married to, the love of my life: the neighborhood boy, Jared. When someone told me that people could have brown skin, however, the rug of my life shot out from under me. How could people be brown? I pondered long and hard, my head aching as though hot metal bands were encircling it, tightening with each second that I tried to work out this new mystery. The only thing that I eventually got straightened out is that I definitely should not be a detective when I grow up. After many hair-pulling moments of confusion, I decided to talk to my mom.

“Mommy,” I implored, “how do brown people make their skin brown?” My mom looked at my dad with that look that I like to call the “a-little-help-here-would-be-nice” look, which is where my mom manages to make her face rather longer than usual, lips stretching and her eyebrows disappearing into her bangs. My dad then gave me the “Jaecyn-go-do-something-other-than-bother-me” look. Quite disheartened, I awaited the next morning with great impatience, for then would be when I would figure this mystery out once and for all by asking one of the Mexicans who rode my bus—another of my seemingly clever plans.

The next morning, as scheduled, the bus arrived around 8:40 am. I climbed the laboring steps into the “body” of the bus and made my way down the “throat” until I saw an open seat next to a brown girl. I smiled at her, very politely, and asked her if she would permit me to take the seat beside her. She peered up at me with an odd expression on her face; only now do I realize that she must have been quite bewildered as to why I would want to sit by her rather than in one of the numerous open seats. When the bus began moving again, I struck up a conversation with the brown girl, and proceeded to cleverly maneuver my way to my topic of choice.

“My name is Jaecyn,” I started, and gave a decent enough pause, before spewing out my question. “I was wondering how it is that you got your brown skin.” The girl stared at me for some amount of time, and then I heard a rather affronted voice from behind me.

“Keep out’f other people’s business,” snarled an intimidating brown sixth grader. I opened my mouth to say ‘excuse you’, which I learned from my parents is what you say when someone answers a question that you didn’t ask them, but he opened his mouth first. “What’re you lookin’ at, fat-mouth? Stop staring at me, stupid,” he added, in a low menacing growl. I imagine the sound that came from my mouth next was a whimper, but to this day I am not sure. My cheeks were burning, which was alarming enough on its own without this intimidating figure behind me.

“I just wanted to know how come she’s got brown skin,” I stammered, my hands going so icy numb that I felt like I was digging bare-handed in the Himalayas for coal. My face burned hotter at the thought. I boldly continued, adding, “But, if you want, you could tell me instead, seeing as you got the same kinda skin too.”

The boy sneered at me, and then said in a low undertone, “You really are stupid, ain’tcha? Let me tell you somethin’ stupid, you got brown skin too, just like me. Now stop asking me questions, fat-lip, your face is uglying me out.” Curiosity definitely killed the cat this time.

I felt crushed. I was stupid; I was ugly; I had fat lips and I was brown. When the bus stopped before the school, my feet couldn’t have carried me off faster than if I had worn the shoes of Hermes himself. I studied my coffee-hued skin all throughout the rest of the school day, noticing for the first time that it was not the same as the milky white as the skin of my sisters. When I got home, I went and stood forlornly in the hallway, gazing intently at the family pictures. I wondered why it was that I was singled out in my family to have this brown skin. I took note of the fact that my mother’s skin was tan, but I could tell that mine was darker. How did I get my skin color? My fat lips drooped into a depressed frown, and my eyebrows hung low over my desolate dark chocolate eyes.

I trudged into the bathroom after what felt like an eternity of staring at the accursed picture and locked the door behind me, climbing onto the countertop. My reflection pouted back at me, and I held my arms from my body as though they were diseased, analyzing their peculiarity. I folded my arms and moped myself a quagmire.

I can embrace my brownness now. Where once I saw my arms as dirty and disgusting, I have learned to see them for what they are. I have been able to learn, slowly, that brown can be beautiful. I am me, and that is all that I can ever be.

As I continue my hectic life, I observe the hatred, revulsion and racism towards my fellow brown people. What is it about skin color that gets numerous countries pitted against each other, wars fought, men killed and whole nations taken as slaves? Skin color is determined by multiple genes inherited from father and mother as well as numerous environmental factors. Can we change? No. Should we have to?

I have many childhood memories, some sweet, and relaxing, whereas others are hectic and horrifying. One thing I do remember quite clearly is that life was simple. Color didn’t matter. Age didn’t matter. Money didn’t matter. What do these mean to children who want only to eat, make friends and have fun? And thus my greatest wish, silly as it may seem, is that everybody can be as color blind as I was in fourth grade, and be as naïve as children.