Colors

Chapter 1: Waking Up

!!!TW!!! : Before you begin, this story was NOT made to offend anyone nor was its purpose to attack any group of people. It is just a story told from a more rigid perspective. I don't discriminate against anyone biased off of their race, gender, sexual orientation or religion. Reader discretion is advised. Enjoy your reading.

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Dark days are always followed by dark nights. I should've known that. Though, now that I think about it, I might've been blinded by the sun's warmth. Possibly even the see through clouds that complimented the blue skies. It was a trick in plain sight. I don't know how I could've missed it but..I did.

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A reason to wake up eludes me, but I still manage to do it everyday. Every morning it's the same brain numbing routine; wrestling my curls that love hugging each other, trying not to impale my eyes with my fingers while putting in contacts and figuring out what color outfit best suits my brown skin. I never thought about my skin before, at least not more than one does. I mean, why stress over something I can't change. It seems pointless to me but overly important to ladies with see through skin. Apparently I offend them with my African roots and wild hair along with other things I can't control, like my full lips and womanly curves. Don't misunderstand, my curves do more harm than they'd like to admit. They attract unwanted eyes to my 17 year old body. The body that looks too grown to be mine, the body that makes clothes that were once good and clean, no longer good and clean.

Being told to go back to once you came from is like a dagger to the heart. A shot to the consciousness. It'll leave you wondering things about your life that you thought were true. You'll ask yourself, '𝘈𝘮 𝘐 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯?' And you'll defend yourself with the notion that you were born here and that warrants you to be an American. You'll stand there with pride, that is until you hear laughter. Taunting laughter, jeering at your oh so American pride. These people with skin like snow then tell you, in a mocking jest, that you could never be an American. You are a thing to be owned, a thing to be purchased and put to work. A thing less than rodents that scavenge dumpsters for food. Then you start to compare. What does your skin lack that theirs has? You might wonder, but the answer is oh so simple. I had figured it out, it was this mud like skin that tied me to my African descent that made me different from the ones that make me feel less than. With that sentiment I'm happy, if being less than rodents is what differs the two of us then I'll gladly be less than a rat rather than a monster who thinks it's that of God. That's how I used to think, now it's a different story. My story.

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