January 12, 2015

Editorial

One day during recess a group of students swarmed around me. I panicked inside, but resolved to keep a composed exterior. A third grader, I was old enough to know that something unpleasant might happen. The spokesperson, a sixth-grade girl, said she had a question for me. I stretched my lips into a tight, tiny smile—and waited.

“We want to know what color you are,” she prodded. “What color do you think you are?”

I vaguely recollected a day’s-old two-sentence conversation about crayon colors with a student. Did that have anything to do with this? I was perplexed, but no longer as anxious.

“Well . . .” I studied my bare forearm for several seconds. “I’m peach. I am a peachy kind of pinkish color,” I replied thoughtfully. I then watched as the students all dissolved into shrieking laughter. I felt my peachy cheeks grow red.

As the laughter died down, another from the group corrected me: “No, Kim. You are White.”

I didn’t comprehend. I glanced at each person surrounding me and saw a veritable rainbow of skin tones. No grays, blacks, or whites. I lamely yet stubbornly clung to my original assessment. More laughter erupted as I declared, “I’m not white. A sheet of paper is white.” Shaking their heads, the group dispersed.

Later, I did comprehend (sort of). Differences, and labels, are a part of our earthly life. So is prejudice.

I weep for my friends who have to tell their teen sons to be careful around the police. I weep for the officers who do serve and protect all—and are maligned. And I weep for all of us injudicious people who don’t take the Word to heart (see Gal. 3:28; John 7:24; Rom. 10:12; and John 13:34).

And, in my own heart and mind, I’m still peachy pink.

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