by Jenna Bryant
For some reason, I have particularly vivid memories of recess where the Southern California sun would send us hiding in the shadows of the buildings, the only true respite being the beloved orange slices occasionally passed out on particularly scorching days. It was here, in between Capri Suns and the daunting topic of addition, where the foundation for my understandings of the world was laid. During this time, my friends and I, both male and female, with every skin color you can imagine, played with the fierce determinism familiar to all young, bright souls still untouched by the burdens of adulthood. The innocence of a child’s world was all I knew, where everyone is a likely best friend no matter skin color, language, or clothing. In fact, it was a pretty simple framework in which I existed: unless you tried to kiss me or fight me, you’re in.
There was a particularly beloved structure on our playground, that of a miniature metal bus frame with wooden seats which we would take turns driving, passengers requesting the next destination, Disneyland being the most frequented site. It was on one of these sweet days when I sat on top of the bus, overlooking my next play option, when someone from below shouted up at me. I looked down to find two young children, unfamiliar to me, staring up with a wild gleam in their eyes. “You’re as white as a toilet seat!” one of them yelled and although I was confused, I immediately knew this to be intended as offensive. Feelings of self-consciousness and hurt welled up within me and not understanding why these two potential friends would make such a comparison, I yelled back with equal ferocity Continue reading