The flashing bright lights beckon us toward the town square.
Red, green, blue, pink, purple, yellow.
The sweet aroma of freshly-made fudge from a store nearby
guides us to the laser show, like a lamb to the slaughter.
The town square is exquisite.
Detailed stormy grey cobblestone covers the ground.
Flowers of a whole gamut of colors stand stoically next to the bench.
Peonies, daffodils, daisies, and pretty much any flower you can think of.
Picture perfect.
This place is picture perfect, like a staged photo from a magazine.
Except for one tiny detail.
Everyone here is white.
Where are the people that look like me?
Have they all been scared away?
We’re nothing but a speck of melanin in the omnipotent sea of white.
They run the show, not us.
Like trained soldiers, they simultaneously turn their heads towards us.
The murmurs of conversation die down and they regard us with apprehension.
Even the children’s shrieks of laughter quiet too.
The soldiers’ eyes seem to say, “Stick to yourselves.”
So we do exactly that.
We walk to the bench with our tails between our legs,
like children being put in the time-out corner by adults.
We sit far away from the others,
a good six feet between us and the other families.
My mom hands me some of the fudge she bought on the way to the square.
The chocolatey goodness melts in my mouth,
and make me feel like I’m floating on clouds in heaven.
My euphoric bubble quickly bursts when
I realize the white families are moving away from us.
Disgusted.
They feel disgusted,
because I’m disgusting.
Too dark to be around,
too much pigment in my skin to be safe.
They leave, saying the smell of curry we brought with us is too strong.
They take their fudge with them too.
How ironic.
They love the fudge,
but they hate me.
We’re both brown being melted into the white under the pressure of the heat.
The cold truth turns the sweet fudge into a bitter aftertaste.
Sick to our stomachs,
bile rising up our throats,
we can no longer be here with them.
We get up to leave and the remaining whites families part like the Red Sea,
more than happy to be rid of us.
In our haste, we leave behind the fudge,
the last bit of joy left in this volatile experience.
The abandoned fudge lies on the park bench,
waiting to be devoured,
just like us.
Red, green, blue, pink, purple, yellow.
The sweet aroma of freshly-made fudge from a store nearby
guides us to the laser show, like a lamb to the slaughter.
The town square is exquisite.
Detailed stormy grey cobblestone covers the ground.
Flowers of a whole gamut of colors stand stoically next to the bench.
Peonies, daffodils, daisies, and pretty much any flower you can think of.
Picture perfect.
This place is picture perfect, like a staged photo from a magazine.
Except for one tiny detail.
Everyone here is white.
Where are the people that look like me?
Have they all been scared away?
We’re nothing but a speck of melanin in the omnipotent sea of white.
They run the show, not us.
Like trained soldiers, they simultaneously turn their heads towards us.
The murmurs of conversation die down and they regard us with apprehension.
Even the children’s shrieks of laughter quiet too.
The soldiers’ eyes seem to say, “Stick to yourselves.”
So we do exactly that.
We walk to the bench with our tails between our legs,
like children being put in the time-out corner by adults.
We sit far away from the others,
a good six feet between us and the other families.
My mom hands me some of the fudge she bought on the way to the square.
The chocolatey goodness melts in my mouth,
and make me feel like I’m floating on clouds in heaven.
My euphoric bubble quickly bursts when
I realize the white families are moving away from us.
Disgusted.
They feel disgusted,
because I’m disgusting.
Too dark to be around,
too much pigment in my skin to be safe.
They leave, saying the smell of curry we brought with us is too strong.
They take their fudge with them too.
How ironic.
They love the fudge,
but they hate me.
We’re both brown being melted into the white under the pressure of the heat.
The cold truth turns the sweet fudge into a bitter aftertaste.
Sick to our stomachs,
bile rising up our throats,
we can no longer be here with them.
We get up to leave and the remaining whites families part like the Red Sea,
more than happy to be rid of us.
In our haste, we leave behind the fudge,
the last bit of joy left in this volatile experience.
The abandoned fudge lies on the park bench,
waiting to be devoured,
just like us.