Affirmative Action

Why is it that the white crayon doesn't make a mark upon the colored paper of diversity? Why is that, as a young white girl I have less of a chance of getting into a university? Do they not know that I'm just as different? My father abused us, white as he was. My mother left, poor, and her caucasion blood didn't matter so much when it spilled all over the tile. And my pale face and pink smile would never tell you what happened and you would never guess. And no one ever wonders because I'm supposed to have it best. But did you know that blue eyes are more sensitive to sunlight and the paler my skin is the easier it burns and though a white man has never shunned me for my color he has assumed that I was fine and never looked deeper into my eyes, never asked what was going on at home or why I begged to be left alone; No one asked if I needed help, they thought my parents were doing well because I'm not a minority. And no, I'm not a minority, because aren't we all children, aren't we all from battered homes, and aren't we all colorless when we close our eyes in fear and brace for the impact of the hand that sees no color but red, blazing red, red anger for a child that has done nothing wrong. And haven't we all been, all along, the same.