The absence of color is white. Now we can get technical and specify that the absence of subtractive colors (not additive) is white, but we’ll keep it simple for now. If the absence of color is white, do you see white when you say “I don’t see color!”
What do you see if not color? Do you see hundreds of years of culture? Ethnic hair with a texture yours could never achieve? Do you see a nose ring that’s more than just a trend? A scarf that’s worn different than yours? Do you see freckles or plain skin? Do you see rich dark skin or blinding white? If not color, then what?
Color is undoubtedly one of the first, if not the first things a person notices about another person. Not on purpose, and its not a bad thing. It’s just there. If we see skin, we see color. We see dark rich hues and pale luminescent reflections. We see undertones of olive. We see freckles the color of your skin sprinkled on a person the color of mine. We see two colors, or three. We see albinism. We see vitiligo. We see birthmarks. We see sunburns. We see tan lines.
Our skin is our largest organ and an important one as well. It protects us from (most) bugs, scrapes, debris, infections, and so much more. It’s our armor and our greatest vulnerability.
Why?
Because it records our tale: scars, marks, tattoos, burns, scrapes, wrinkles.
Our skin records everything, so why don’t we appreciate it? Why don’t we, at the very least, see it? Because it also has it’s fair tale of uncomfortable silences and never-ending biases attached to it.
Racism.
Prejudice.
Hate.
Is our skin to blame? No. Is our skin still there? Yes.
So don’t tell me you don’t see color, because I know you do. I want you to see color.
My color is my beauty and my story. My skin is that of my mother and my father. It’s ability to darken with the sun is my lineage. The freckles are my family. Yes, I am an American but my skin is American and Persian. It’s the skin of people who walked deserts and scaled mountains. It’s the skin of a people who spoke a language many Americans do not understand. It’s the skin of a people who consider me beautiful, not exotic and not a fetish. I take pride in my skin and my color. You don’t put me at ease when you say you don’t see color; you put me on edge. Because I fear that if you don’t see my color, then who’s do you see? Yours?
My skin marks everything from the hands that I’ve shaken to the people that I’ve loved. My skin shows the years I have lived and so many more I’ve yet to. My skin proudly presents two freckles, one on each cheek, identical to my father’s. My skin clumsily displays two scars on my arm, both on the right, identical to the broken window of my childhood home. My skin is home to hair follicles that had me labeled a monkey once, but now give me “trendy” eyebrows every girl wants. My skin can liken me to a terrorist but it can also liken me to a queen. Which one I am will be determined on my action, not my skin. Who I am is not because of my skin or despite my skin, but with my skin.
“I don’t see color.”
I want you to see it. Just don’t treat me differently because of it. Not better. Not worst.
All American Avalanche 