Posts Tagged ‘Picture Books’

Wake up! There are three snakes in your bed

June 11, 2010

Imagine yourself awaking, stretching as you leisurely unfurl yourself, eyes closed, into a regal recline. You are the mother of two rambunctious, loveable rascals whom have not as yet arisen.

You are luxuriating in the resonance of an audible inner exhale that thrills your every cell as it breathes from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, when, surrendering to the “Ahh,” your Zen is shattered by a helium-high pitched “One. Two. Three.” In stereo!

Welcome to one morning in my world. The boys were up. I opened my eyes to witness them cocksuredly laying out on the other pillow in my bed, their catch of the day, three lithe, not so little, garden snakes. Do you have any idea what freshly captured garden snakes smell like?

There they stood, Moses and Malik, wide-eyed, breathless, proud as peacocks, grinning Cheshire cats; the cats that got the cream. I could conjure another cliché, but you get the picture I am sure.

My gut reaction, the girly-girl in me. Yes, I know this is non politically correct language, but this is the truest way I can describe that particular bit of the many bits that make up the whole of me. Do you want to know what the woman/hag/crone/angel/witch/goddess/mother in me, wanted to do to my darlings?

Anyway, as I was saying, the girly-girl in me wanted to wretch, scream, hurl – all over Moses and Malik, not the serpents – but then I remembered Gwendoline. Gwendoline, heroine, star, of my little picture book, “Bugs! Bugs! Bugs! I Love Bugs!”

Sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what Gwendoline is made of, but, Gwendoline loves all things squiggly, wiggly, creepy and crawly. Yes! Gwendoline loves bugs! Forgive me but, cheek-to-cheek, in full pillow-patter pose with three ticked off ophidians, there is no distinction between a worm and a snake.

As I thought of Gwendoline, my stomach settled and I found my breath. Did you know you can breathe through your skin? I sat reclining, admittedly at this point more rigid than regal, smiling wanly, somewhat stupefied, and questioned how my life had come to this. No prince charming on my pillow. No knight in shining armor, only three Thamnophis Sirtalis serpents on my bolster, and Moses and Malik, fruit of my womb, standing to attention, positively glowing in exaltation. Had my offspring presented me at that time, with the Hope diamond, or a hundred-million-dollar winning lottery ticket, they could not have been more certain of their worth and entitlement to my deepest gratitude and undying love. I marveled at how I had never, in my wildest dreams (and I am she of the wild reverie,) imagined that this would be my life.

Do you know what? Looking back I am so glad I had never imagined so many of things that have been my life, for had I, I would have run hard and fast the other way (whichever direction that might have been.) Boy would I have missed out on so many weird and wonderful experiences.

I mean, one has not lived unless one can truthfully say, “I have reclined in bed with three snakes simultaneously – the reptile kind!”

This column originally appeared in the May, 2010 edition of The Southwest Community Connection newspaper.

Storytime, Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, Portland, Oregon, January 30, 2009, Part I

February 19, 2009

I realize this post is very long and I know how intimidating streams of words can be, so I have broken this posting down into five parts for ease of perusal, if you are so inclined.

Sincerely,

Sharon
__________ 

Friday, January 30, 2009 I set out to conduct a children’s story time at Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, in north Portland. I had been invited to do this by Krakow Koffeehouse & Café owner, Mark Kirchmeier. I was planning to read my children’s picture books Max and Me, Bugs! Bugs! Bugs! I Love Bugs! And Uh! Oh! Where Did Baby Go? This story telling was to be my first of 2009, and more significantly, my first reading during the brand new “historic” Presidency of Barack Obama, a president of color, whose message of hope and change knits nicely with the message of my mission – that we are all, no matter our color, culture, or nationality, inherently the same – we are all human beings in this world together entitled to respect, dignity, hope, truth and love.

A no-school-Friday, I brought my sons along with me to the Krakow Koffeehouse & Café story telling. Story time was 10:00 AM and we arrived energized and excited to entertain the little ones. I had planned not only stories, but songs – I was going to sing my original composition, “What Color Are You? You’re The Color Of Love.” – and art activities.

We entered Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, one son carrying a display stand, another carrying my guitar and me with my book bag. I approached the counter. There was a tall, bespectacled, white, male, behind the counter on one side serving a customer, across the other side a woman with long light brown hair wearing a white sweatshirt, appeared to cleaning. Neither employee acknowledged my presence, but giving the benefit of doubt, I waited a moment for the man to finish with the customer. Time ticked on. When there was still no acknowledgement of my presence, I politely interrupted the tall, bespectacled, white, male, “Excuse me, is Mark here?”  I enquired (Mark being, Mark Kirchemeier, the owner of Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, by whom I had been invited me to do story time.)

The tall, bespectacled, white, male, responded curtly, “Mark is not here, but we’re ready for you.” Taken aback that although I had not been acknowledged upon entering Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, this employee was well aware of who I was, and why I was there. This realization unnerved me somewhat, but I shook it off and proceeded to enquire as to where to set up for story time, turning my body to point to the area in question behind me.

When I turned back toward the counter the male employee was saying “Outstanding.” I detected a sneer and condescension in his tone but then, as the sweatshirt clad, white, female, employee was now standing beside him, I questioned whether or not he was indeed speaking to me. To clarify things for myself, I asked him if he had been speaking to me. He responded loudly, “I was speaking to her.” pointing to the female employee in the white sweatshirt. At this I said, “I was talking to you. I asked you where I should set up.” He then said, “When someone turns their back on you, it means they are finished with you.”

Thinking that he thought I had turned by back on him and attempting to clear up the confusion, I began to explain that I had not turned my back on him, but had merely turned to indicate to him where I might set up. He then shouted, “When someone turns their back on you, it means they are finished with you. I turned my back on you. I was done with you.” Still, not wanting to fully comprehend what was going on, I continued to argue my innocence. Suddenly, a white, woman with multiple piercings on her visage, charged over and began screaming at me that she had heard what I said, she was a customer and they, all the other customers, heard what I said. At this point the tall, bespectacled, white, male, fully unleashed his hostility and screamed “See, everyone in here heard what you said.” With a sweeping gesture, encompassing everyone on the premises, he then proclaimed that “See we all know what you say more than you people.”

With his “you people” comment, there was no longer any dodging comprehension for me. From the time I entered the premises of Krakow Koffeehouse & Café and was rendered invisible, my intuition had been willing me to see the truth, but I had bestowed the benefit of the doubt upon my fellow human beings inhabiting the premises at that time.

Slapped to reality I remembered that my sons were with me, watching this all and I worried for them. I tried to locate them, but my senses assaulted, I was rendered temporarily blind and I couldn’t see them. It was as if I were in the center of concentric circles – or a Roman amphitheatre, panicking, with lions slowly, arrogantly, circling – rapidly spinning, out of control, the outside circle rotating, morbidly slowly, in the opposite direction, everything warping in and out of focus; the only thing clear, sharp, and in focus, were the words and the hatred propelling them, which pierced my very being.

As I looked around Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, I caught the eyes of each of the four or five patrons (all of whom were white) who were inside in addition to the male and female employee, and the irate multi-pierced white, female, customer. I looked at every one of them beeseechingly, yet no one stood up nor spoke up. They burrowed their buttocks deeper into their seats; buried their faces in their coffee, cell phone and newspaper. One man looked at me with that “Can you believe this?” look then returned to his phone call. Another smiled sweetly at me on his way out the door. 

When finally I regained my equilibrium and located my sons, I knew I could not read my books in that environment. (My stories are full of truth, laced with whimsy and joy; they’re about equality, love and humanity.) I asked the boys to put my things back in the car, telling them “I cannot conduct a story telling here.”

The tall, bespectacled, white, male employee and the multi-pierced woman, both fired “Good. Get out we don’t want you here.” The woman then ripped a flyer with my photograph on it promoting the event, from a sandwich board, crumpling it in her hands saying, “I’ve seen your picture and you’re not very good.” I shook my head, wondering what my photograph could possibly say about my story telling abilities and began to follow my sons out the door. The tall, bespectacled, white, male, bellowed after us. “Thank God.” (My youngest son clued me in later that what the multi-pierced angry, white, female had meant was that she didn’t think my pictures were very good.)

We returned the guitar and other items to my car. I was about to leave when I decided that I needed to at least let Mark Kirchmeier, the owner, know why I would not be fulfilling my obligation and doing story time. I returned to the store to request a phone number at which I could contact him directly. I was told by the tall, bespectacled, white, male employee to get out. I tried explaining that, as a professional, I needed to let Mark know why I was leaving. The male employee continued to tell me to get out, eventually shrieking, “You need to show me respect.” (In my world respect is earned and you certainly don’t earn mine by ill-treating me.) Then, determined, it would seem, to obliterate any remnants of doubt in my mind as to whom, and what exactly, I was dealing with, the tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee vociferated “I don’t know where you’re from, but you’re in my country now.”

Evidently emboldened, the multi-pierced, white, female customer lunged at me, arms flailing, shouting in my face that every one of the customers (waving her arms for emphasis, including them in her sweep) felt threatened by me and that she was calling the police. 

I will confess, that at this time, like a bull at a red flag, all I could see was her silver nose ring, taunting me, tempting me, daring me… It took all my will to not shove my little finger between it and her snout, and pull, really, really, hard. You will be happy to know I did restrain myself. For this I thank my angels, my intuition, or maybe it was the “friendly” immigration officer in Charlotte, North Carolina, this past July, who after informing my two sons that they had more rights than I did; that they could vote (my sons were, at that time, 12 and 10 years old,) proceeded to tell me that should I “so much as hit someone, I would be sent back home (to England.)” (Now don’t get me wrong, I have no problem returning to my birthplace, I would however, prefer to do it under my own volition.)

At the time, I remember wondering, fretting actually, as to why such a “genial” welcome back to the Country for sweet little me. Friday, January 30, 2009, at approximately 9:50 AM, standing face to nose-ring attached to an out of control, bigoted, white, female, in Krakow Koffeehouse and café, my pinky twitching, it became awesomely, audibly, clear – complete with southern drawl. But that’s another story for a later blog.

The irate multi-pierced, white, female, customer picked up the phone, waved it at me and threatened, “I’m calling the police.” When that, to her surprise, didn’t scare me, she challenged, “I’m dialing the number…” I told her to go ahead. I am not afraid of the police. (I must say I did get the distinct impression that I was supposed to be afraid.) I had done nothing wrong, unless you count attempting to fulfill the obligations of a story telling invitation, entering the premises, head held high while abundantly melanistic, and expecting to be treated, like anyone else, as a human being – with respect and dignity. 

 Continued/Storytime, Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, Portland, Oregon, January 30, 2009, Part II

Storytime, Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, Portland, Oregon, January 30, 2009, Part II

February 19, 2009

Anyway, as I began to take my leave once and for all, Sunshine Dixon, of the Urban League of Portland, entered. I have never been so glad to see Sunshine. Believing she would have a contact number for Mark Kirchmeier, I felt my current dilemma of relaying a message to Mark, solved. I informed Sunshine that I was leaving, telling her “I cannot conduct a story time here.” (For background, Sunshine initiated contact between Mark of Krakow Koffeehouse & Café and me. She had explained that his “global” coffee shop was also an art gallery and he was looking for a diverse mix of artists to adorn the walls and provide entertainment on his premises. I had contacted him on her recommendation. We met and he subsequently expressed an interest in carrying my product, and invited me to conduct a (and possibly several) story time.)

I explained everything to Sunshine and asked her for Mark’s number. Sunshine confidently said, “I’ll take care of this.” She too was met with unbridled hostility. The multi-pierced, angry, white, woman continued to bleat at me telling me to get out and threatening me with the police. Sunshine attempted to both locate Mark Kirchmeier and reason respectfully with the irascible multi-pierced, white, woman. Eventually she tamed enough to ask derisively of Sunshine, “Why are we still dealing with her? (pointing to me) Are you her sister?

Standing talking with Sunshine, suddenly I heard “miss.” I turned to find the tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee, standing by me, face and body turned away from me, holding the phone contemptuously out toward me. 

I stepped so that I could look into his face and he would have to look into mine. I did not reach for the phone. Refusing to look at me, he, the tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee, contorted his neck and body, and jabbed the phone at me, saying disdainfully, “It’s for you. It’s Mark the owner.” I was not about to take the phone until he acknowledged me and so I continued to look at him in utter amazement, willing him to recognize my humanity. Alas, ‘twas not to be. The tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee ceremoniously dropped the telephone to the floor at my feet and ambled away.

Stunned I could not believe this was happening. I looked around the room, scanning the faces of the patrons who all, to a person, sat passively by, their reticence smirking at me.

Awakened from my stupor by my son’s movement and fearing he might pick up the phone, I readied myself to knock it out of his hands. A law-abiding, conscious, member of society, I am proud to say that my son kicked that phone away from me. 

Well, this gesture of self-respect and pride sent multi-pierced, angry, white, woman into a tailspin. She began bellowing that we were now damaging property and she was definitely calling the police.

Interestingly, or should I say, revealingly, it is now that the adult patrons of Krakow Koffeehouse & Café were compelled to action – almost baying for the blood of my 13 year old who had simply, unlike any one of them, courageously stood up for something, for his mother, for himself, his brother, for people of color, for humanity.

Sunshine was now on the telephone with Mark Kirchmeier, the owner of Krakow Koffeehouse & Café. He apparently was begging me to stay and wait for him because he was “only ten minutes away.” I finally had had enough. I gathered my children and began to leave again. Still breathing fire, multi-pierced, angry, white, woman, customer, followed behind me ranting, “Yeah! Get out.” “Who do you think you are? There’s only one British Queen.”

Finally outside of that toxic environment and inhaling the unexpectedly magnificent fresh air of highly- trafficked, North Interstate, I remembered a friend of mine was coming to the story time with her children and I rushed to call her to dissuade her from coming. Unfortunately, or fortunately, she was literally around the corner and pulled in simultaneously. Sensing something wrong, she quickly parked and rushed out of the car. I began to recount what had happened and I broke down sobbing. (Still, two weeks later, my spirit sobs when it hits me what my sons and I experienced, and I feel, like thumps on my person, the arrogant superiority of the perpetrators whom, somewhere in their being, believed such bigoted treatment justified, because we were in their eyes, different; in the words of the tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee, “…not from here” and therefore not entitled, as other paler people, to humane treatment.

I laugh, sorrowfully, when I think about how the stories I was going to read were about inclusiveness and the fact that, though we might be different on the exterior, we were all ultimately, inherently the same – human. I was going to sing my song “What Color Are you? You’re The Color Of Love!”

While my friend was consoling me, an anxious Mark Kirchmeier came scurrying down the street. He nervously asked me what happened. I told him, sharing how his tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee had used the eponymous “You people” to refer to me. I too told him how that same employee had screeched at me, “I don’t know where you’re from but you’re in my country now.” I spared him no detail.

He ran inside Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, coming back outside to state, “Well, we have a classic case of he said, she said.” At no time did he, the person who had invited me to conduct the story time, invite me inside so that we could discuss things all together and “sort things out.” He did, however, proceed to tell me that his employee’s social skills were “rough around the edges.” I asked “And you have him working in a coffee shop?” He also informed me that the multi-pierced, angry, white, female, customer, was his tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee’s girlfriend.

He then tried to assuage my feelings and wipe the slate clean, by offering me the chance to do story time on another day, “any other time I wanted” were his words. Shocked that he would ask, I told him that no I would never. When my friend who found the whole thing quite ironic knowing me, my books and my message, asked him if he had any sense of what it is I do. Why I do what I do. Why I write and illustrate the books I write; why I sing the songs I sing? Seeming confused, his response to her was “Well, we would still like to carry her children’s books and products.” 

Incredulous at Mark’s attempts to appease me and negate my experience, I communicated to him emphatically, that his employee’s actions were racist. Mark recoiled, horrified that I had dared to not only identify the elephant in the room, but also the piles of doo-doo on the floor. Then, shamefacedly, asked me, all the while looking down at the floor “So, you don’t think it was just that he was rude, you think it crossed the line into racism? You don’t think you’re being…” Mark didn’t complete that question, though I, staring at the edge of his spectacles (for he still would not look me in the eye,) willed him to do it.

Next thing, wouldn’t you know, a police car pulled up, parked, and the policeman entered Krakow Koffeehouse & Café. Mark took off back to his business. A minute or so later another police car pulled up. This time a policeman replete in bulletproof vest and ammo belt sprinted across the street into the coffee shop.

Susanne and I continued talking on the sidewalk for a little while longer. Neither Mark, policeman number one, or number two, nor anyone else from inside Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, approached me for any, or, additional information.

 Continued/Storytime, Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, Portland, Oregon, January 30, 2009, Part III 

Storytime, Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, Portland, Oregon, January 30, 2009, Part III

February 19, 2009

Returning to my car I glanced in the window of Krakow Coffeehouse & Café. I was shocked and offended to see Sunshine (who too had been the recipient of, and witness to, a racially motivated assault,) conducting a story time that I had, in good conscience, chosen not to do, due to the racist environment. Seeing Sunshine sitting there I was so angry. I felt slapped, no punched and stabbed in the back – she might just as well have put on black face and danced.

Watching her gushing and grinning all I saw was someone trying desperately to be seen to be perfectly fine with everything, unlike the uppity Negress, namely me, on the other side of the window. What I saw was her condoning their racism, siphoning off their hatred for them and swallowing it down, trying hard not to wince as its bitter rancidity tore apart her innards, and all the while ensuring that they didn’t feel bad. Her actions said to me “I’m not like her Massa. I won’t make you feel bad Massa. No. No. You just give me whatever you feel I’m worth Massa. What’s that you sayin’ Massa? You need to kick somethin’ Massa? Here I am sir, I’m layin’ down for you Massa. Kick me hard Massa. I can take it. Jus’ please, please, please, Massa, don’t make me go back in the field. I’m beggin’ you Massa…

As I replayed the scene in my mind later that day, my anger abated, settling to a profound sadness. She was only doing what “sane,” “safe,” “sensible,” black people who know their place do. Shutter your heart, shroud your soul, swallow your pride, but keep on working, keep on doing, keep on trying to prove your worth, prove you are just as good, just like those of the dominant culture.

Don’t just catch the filth thrown at you, ingest it, rub it in your pores, be a willing receptacle, but be sure to keep one eye and your nostrils open so you can continue to see, and smell, the ever elusive prize – that prize being, equality in humanity -, because someday you will have that prize, someday you will be worthy, someday when you’re broken enough, maybe when you’re “dead” enough, it will be yours? Someday they will let you win it. Won’t they?

Now that black people are free. (Come on you people, there’s one of your own sitting and shitting in the White House and we’re no longer hanging you now are we?) Free to accept whatever the dominant culture deigns to discharge on us; free to swallow our anger – eat it into sickness, so that we can still have access to the crumbs that might be tossed our way as long as we bend low enough, assimilate enough, work hard enough, stay in our bucket. Pardon me, my mistake, I meant place.

A couple of hours later Mark Kirchmeier telephoned me, enquiring as to whether it was a good time to talk. Before I could respond, he launched into the reason for his call. “I wanted to call and let you know what I have done with my staff. I have given Ben (that it turns out is the name of the tall, bespectacled, white, male, “coffee mixer and pourer,” aka barista) a reprimand and I have banned his girlfriend from the store.

He then kindly shared with me that Ben had thirteen years coffee experience so … he knew a lot, and he (Mark,) didn’t want to fire him at this time. Was he concerned about finding a suitable replacement? In this time when jobs being lost like hair follicles on a balding pate!  Poor, poor, Markie would surely have a monstrous time finding a suitable replacement for the socially inept (my British translation of Mark’s words) Ben. I mean, it’s intellectually taxing pouring boiling water on coffee grounds all day long. But, I digress.

Mark then informed me that it was in fact the girlfriend whom had uttered “I don’t know where you’re from, but you’re in my country now.” Aware of what he was attempting I firmly corrected him and reiterated that the comment had come direct from the mouth of his tall, bespectacled, white, male, employee. (I reminded him that it was the multi-pierced, angry, white, girlfriend whom had made the “…there is only one British queen” retort.) He conceded saying, “But that’s a racist comment? When I concurred. Mark plummeted into a whine of how dazed and shaken he was by what had happened.

At this point, my patience expired. Not only had this man not called to apologize, rewritten my story, presumptuously retelling it to me (all in an attempt to justify not dealing with his racist employee, thereby sidestepping his own racism,) he was now going to try to elicit sympathy from me.

I was standing in line at the checkout in Trader Joes; it definitely was not a good time to talk, and had Mark given me the chance I would have informed him of that fact, but, I believe everything happens for a reason and so I let him have it, in a proper, regal, British way.

I told him that he couldn’t even begin to feel what I was feeling when I set out that morning to conduct a story time filled with inclusiveness and love and that on entering his business I had made the mistake of expecting to be treated with respect and humanity and that I had, instead, been met with disdain and racism. I then informed him that this was not a good time to talk.

Driving to my home later that day, I suddenly felt exposed, and afraid – what if those hate filled people knew where I lived. I felt afraid for my children’s safety, my own safety and the safety of my home.

I received the following email from Sunshine Dixon that afternoon:

I am sorry about the event today
Sent By: “Sunshine Dixon”   
On:   Jan 01/30/09 11:23 AM

Sharon

I am heartsick about what took place today. My heart goes out to you and your kids for everything they/you witnessed and felt. This was so unexpected and out of line with what I personally experienced just one week prior. My heart breaks for what I witnessed and experienced today and I am so sorry that you and your kids went through that.

I stayed for half and hour to share with the 9 – 10 little ones who where there for you. The parents are going to check your website for other shows of yours to bring their little ones. They were sorry they missed seeing you and really want to connect with you in the future. I asked them to lookup your website. 

I talked to Mark as well.

I am so sorry to you Sharon and to your little ones for today’s events.

Sunshine Dixon

Yet, she stayed…

The sad thing is Sunshine really believed that directing people to my website and me potentially making a sale or two, would somehow mop up, be the antidote for, the poison liberally poured on my children and me by the inhabitants of “friendly, global, neighborhood, coffeehouse” Krakow Koffeehouse & Café, that morning; actions which, in her own words, had rendered her heartsick. When will humankind (and in this case, particularly, black (the melanistic among us) humankind) learn that Liberty, Truth and Equality are not, contrary to popular belief, commodities for sale to the highest bidder?

Continued/Storytime, Krakow Koffeehouse & Cafe, Portland, Oregon, January 30, 2009, Part IV 

What Color Are You?

August 19, 2008

All this press about the dilemma for Obama’s campaign team, of how to color him black enough, but not too black as to turn off the white (majority) voter, makes me think of an encounter I had with a little girl at my son’s preschool. This meeting touched me deeply and provided me with the inspiration for my children’s picture book Max and Me.

On this particular day a little girl in his class stood and stared at me, her expression a mix of horror, confusion and curiosity. Finally, realizing I did not, in fact, have moldy spinach, or “horror of horrors,” a bogey, hanging from my left nasal passage, I spoke first. Our conversation went something like this:

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Are you Moses’ mom?”

“Yes I am.”

“Oh?”

“Can I touch you?”

“Ok?????”

The little girl stroked my arm, then she touched her own arm. She closed her eyes and again stroked my arm. She stood very still, mulling things over. Then, with her eyes still closed, she touched her own arm. Abruptly, she skipped away down the hall. Suddenly, she stopped, turning around to look back at me. This little girl was not only smiling at me (a beam of relief and understanding that said “you’re OK.”) she was truly lit up from within – enlightened. 

“Bye.” She said, her ponytail swinging as she skipped away, turning once more at the end of the corridor to wave. And then she was gone. I never again had to suffer her ” equilibrium wrecking” stare and we became friends, known to each other always as “young lady,” and “Moses’ mom.”

I will be honest with you, I hesitated at that little girl’s request, I knew it related to the color of my skin and quite frankly I was tired of educating people as to the humanness, the sameness, of black people, but the Universe whispered to me “Breathe.” So I breathed and said “Yes.” 

I quickly realized that that young lady had not ever had the opportunity to touch dark brown skin and she simply wondered what it felt like. In that open, innocent way children approach life, (until it’s taught, or frightened out of them,) she was going to find out, from me. I, in the fatigue and fallacies implemented by the “isms” of adulthood (especially racism,) came dangerously close to looking a gift horse in the mouth, that is until I released, deciding somewhat involuntarily, to follow her childly lead and open to possibility. Maybe I didn’t in fact really know why she wanted to touch me? 

When that little girl closed her eyes, touched me and herself all over again, it took my breath away. How did she, little more than a toddler, know that what we see with our eyes is so often a distraction, a distortion, not the truth? How did she know that contrary to popular belief, it is in the dark that we truly see? 

Saddened though I was that up until that time, she hadn’t just known that dark brown skin was skin, just like her own pink skin, in that moment I realized we had been gifted. I realized that I, in sharing myself, allowing her to touch me, had handed her a gift that can, I believe, help heal our world – the knowledge that skin-is-skin-is-skin-is-skin, whatever its color. A gift she will carry (in her DNA) and share wherever she wanders in this world. Her gift to me was the reminder to return to innocence every chance I get (no matter how terrible things may seem) for that is where magic happens. I carried my gift home that evening and wrote Max and Me.

During that brief, but profound interaction, it was shown to me that in this era of multiculturalism, one fundamental fact is often forgotten. The fact that people, no matter their color or culture, are inherently the same. Aside from the obvious food and water, we, members of the human race – the only race (the social construct of “Race” was invented for reasons of hierarchy, power and control. There is no scientific evidence supporting the purported different “Races.” In fact, there are far greater differences between a man and a woman than there are between “Races.”) – need hope, truth and love, no matter where we reside on the human color wheel.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if mankind could some day soon be open to receiving the same simple gifts?