The Color of Hate

I am a white women. Or so they have told me.

That is a black man. Or so they have told me.

They lied. I know for  fact that I am not white.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning looking red, and when I get sick, I turn green. I better not tell my friends at school that if I hold my breath I turn blue. I would not dare tell my father that I was orange last summer from my tragic overuse of fake tanning lotion. What would they think of me? Am I the only white person who is not actually white? I put my arm next to a white piece of paper and I could see the difference.

Black people are dangerous. Or so they have told me.

Black people aren't as intelligent. Or so they have told me.

I came across a black man once. He spoke the same language as my family. He used enhanced vocabulary, wore nice clothes, and smiled like an angel. I have spoken to many white people. I've met white people who reeked of body odor, wore baggy holed shirts, and spoke in half sentences.

So I stopped listening. And as I walk past an individual, I see a human.