Colorblind
Some people are inherently racist. They look at someone, and all they see is the color of that person’s skin. Not me. I never even notice skin color. I guess you could say I’m colorblind. You could be red, or you could be green; I wouldn’t know the difference. That’s how colorblind I am.
Listen, we’re all just people. Red people, green people—they all look alike to me. Just like red and green lights at the intersection look alike. It’s about the content of a man’s character, not the reddish or greenish hue of his flesh.
I don’t care if you’re Red and like tuna sandwiches or Green and enjoy chicken noodle soup. We’re all the same color on the inside. (Which is either red or green. I’m not sure which.) We’re all one family of man, stretching from the Red Sea to Greenland. Let’s learn to live together.
I had a roommate in college, who I thought was Green, though I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to make any assumptions, because race is such a tricky subject. Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t, because I heard him refer to himself as a redhead. At first I was shocked by his use of a racial epithet, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Can you imagine if I had tried to engage him about Green culture, and he turned out to be Red? This non-racist colorblindness of mine can be an awkward thing sometimes.
But still, I’m glad I don’t see color. That way, I can approach everyone fresh, without bias or assumptions. Heck, I don’t even know which race I am, myself. I’m pretty sure it’s Red though, because I’m such a good dancer.
