I am a person of color.
If the color is the FLESH crayon found in the old 64 box.
Everyone in the world is a person of size. Most of us have jeans of blue. Some individuals are persons of interest. And OK, the five folks in our family are people of no color. We admit it, we are so white. When our boys throw around slang or, more absurdly, signs, Chris asks them how much credibility they think they have, representing the mean lanes of Rose Valley.
Proof:
Recently, Hugh read a book called DOPE SICK in which, early on, a street thug talks about how he wants to “bring money to my Moms. Y’know, I wanna take care of my Moms.” Hugh’s first thought was, “Wow, this gangster is the son of lesbians. Doesn’t he get beat up for having two mommies?” Then the light dawned and Hugh realized this was shtreet for “Mom.”
He is truly my child.
My whitest moment was back in the 80s, when we went to see the movie COLORS, set in LA with black and Hispanic gangs. I couldn’t keep anyone straight and at the end, I complained, “Oh please, that was so unrealistic. Like we’re supposed to believe all those Mexican and African American guys were from the same FAMILY?” Chris was puzzled. I explained: “They’re all named Holmes? Ridiculous!” I’ve never lived that down. Even though Chris is white, he’s not as white as me.
(Note to my very Caucasian dad: “Holmes” is short for “Homeboy,” a term of endearment. Don’t throw it around now with your McDonald’s coffee buddies, it went out of fashion long ago.)
My mother-in-law Wendy, who is even whiter than me because she’s English, told us several years ago that she had gone into a Radio Shack and been waited on by a clerk with (gesturing vaguely to her hair), “you know, those dreadnoughts.” I imagined battleships clanking on someone’s head until Chris said “oh, you mean dreadlocks.” Another time, Wendy said she had been puzzling over a word she didn’t know in the latest Newsweek. She found her dogeared page and yellow highlighted word: “dis.” Again, Chris explained, and Wendy responded that she didn’t hear that word much at her quiet Quaker retirement community. Apparently, elderly pacifists don’t dis one another.
I think I’ve proved my point. We are people of color. Peach Crayola color.
