The Day I Saw The Color of My Skin

I wrote this my freshman year of high school about an eventful happening in my life, to say the least..

The day I saw the color of my skin was an ordinary day, aren't they always. It was near the beginning of fifth grade, just after my birthday. The afternoon was sunny and warm, which surprises me greatly because usually in books or movies when something horrible is about to happen, there's rain, thunderstorms, a hurricane- you name it (at least in the movies they get a heads up).

            My friend and I were talking in class just before school got out about the girl he liked. He was as red as a sun-burnt tourist as I teased him about this girl. In order to save himself from further embarrassment, he quickly twisted the conversation toward me. Of course I was denying denial when he kept insisting that I still liked this one boy and I kept trying to lead him off the trail.

            Just like in some romantic comedy (although it was now where near funny), who happened to walk up at that exact, and I mean the exact, moment, but that one boy. He said something I think that resembled overhearing our conversation, but his voice was drowned out by my heart beating. Thump, thump, thump. Stop. I tried to excuse myself from his accusations of my feelings for him, but it was too late. His words shot like snake fangs into my skin and he just strode away as quickly as he had appeared. However, I hardly noticed because the venom had spread and my mind was drowning in his poisonous words:

            “Sorry Anika, I don’t kiss black girls.”

Those sickening words played in my head over and over like a broken record. I held my composure through my friend’s insensitivity as he laughed like that was meant to be a joke. I held my composure until I was safe at home because I don’t like to show my tears. I held my composure until I was safe in my room because I didn’t want my parents to ask me why I was crying.

 

Was something wrong with me?

Well, of course, there’s something wrong with everyone, how else would one define humanity?

Was something wrong with me because I had dark skin? Now that’s that question.

The question that the venom spread through my mind and heart that day and has hardened into a callous on my soul.

I never thought of myself as anything but what I was: a girl.

So simple, but simplicity doesn’t suffice in our world does it?

 

After the show of tears and sadness was over, my depression transformed into bitterness. I decided to bottle up my anger and disappointment and fear into the airtight guarantee of a sealed letter. When I finished writing (I’d rather not share what I wrote as it’s a detraction from my story), I laid the letter by my backpack, prepared to rain vengeance on this boy and went back to my room. After sitting quietly on my bed for a while, I heard God speak to me.

He told me: forgive. Anger, okay. Sadness, okay. Bitterness? Hate? Come to me, I am sufficient.

With my mind playing tug of war with my body, I took the letter and stuffed it in my diary, where it would remain locked away, unopened and untouched for several years. I hoped back onto my bed. Somehow I slept that night.

Nowadays it’s a nightmare of the day and a terrible dream of the night.

Plagues my thoughts, permeates my hopes.

Forgiveness is an inheritance that is received from the King. And it’s there for me too. I’ll never stop trying, to forgive that is. And I know for certain that I will never forget.

Maybe I should’ve gotten over it by now. Maybe he was just a child who didn’t know any better. Maybe he said he was sorry. Maybe my heart still longs for him to see me for who I am, to see my soul, my desires, my wishes, my adventures, my heart- to see past the color of my skin.

Right- okay, maybe this is over dramatic

But you weren’t there on that day.

You didn’t see the color of my skin.