Five Minute Friday: Color

It’s Friday.

Let’s do it. Let’s just write without worrying if it’s just right or not.

For only five short, bold, beautiful minutes. Won’t you join me?

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Most importantly: leave a comment for the person who linked up before you – encouraging them in their writing!

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes on:

Color…

GO

I remember Smackover, Alabama. I remember dirty railroad tracks and harsh words.

I remember color. The color of my skin, of the waitresses skin, of the man who wondered why I was on HIS side of the tracks because I obviously wasn't from around there.

I remember a neighbor who accused me of being racist because I didn't want to play with her anymore as she was being very mean.

I remember being ashamed of the skin that God gave me; something I couldn't help or change.

I went to Smackover 10 years ago, wearing an orange shirt along with 50 others, to help break the boundaries that color have created. A huge BBQ in the park, invited the white people on this side of the track and the black people on that side of the track. We invited all, even the waitress that wouldn't serve my friend a drink because his skin was too dark.

My neighbor was darker than me, colored, as they say. She hit me and took my toys, so I left. Was I being racist?

A darker-skinned man yelled and laughed at me for melting in the sun with my too-white skin.

Color on the outside, but ALL THE SAME on the inside.