Drawing Faces
In an elementary school today, I sat with a young boy as he drew a pumpkin. Halloween is just several days away. He considered what kind of eyes, nose and mouth the anthropomorphic fruit should have, and I offered my wise counsel, having seen a few more Halloweens and all of its accoutrements than he had. I was wearing a sleeveless turtleneck, the kind that confuses my friend (“If it’s cold enough to need to keep your neck warm, why have your arms out?”)
Maybe the student was thinking the same when he commented, “You don’t have muscles.”
Well, I looked over at my limbs, they are a little flabby. I agreed with his innocently blunt assessment. “No, I don’t.” He continued to ask my opinion of other important matters, like how he should draw mean eyes for the pumpkin, but stopped to clarify something he’d also been thinking about: “You’re light-skinned, right?”
I blinked, looked at him. Smiled. “Yes.” I chuckled, amused at his confusion. Again I looked down at my skin for any sudden transformations in color, like a mood ring or a person who easily blushes. I wasn’t a mood ring and I don’t blush easily. Apparently, though, my limb was endlessly fascinating, as he continued to comment on the semi-translucent quality of my hands that revealed raised green veins. Since the theme now was “Ms. Henderson’s Multicolored Arm,” I turned it over for the real treat. Lighter than the outside of my arm, you can see veins from my wrist to shoulder (though we stopped appropriately at my elbow).
“If we were to cut ourselves right now, would our blood be the same color? Or would mine be green?” Initially he seemed to accept the possibility that I could have blood a different color than his. Quickly, he dispensed of the idea. No, he shook his head. Even the noses on the pumpkins are fake.
His question later struck me as funny in its obvious nature. Of course, I think to myself, I’m light skinned. Did he think I was dark? No, my co-worker explained. He was asking (she lowered her voice) if you were white. It never occurred to me. Why not ask, “Are you white?” Yes, it’s rude, and I fully expect anyone I meet to do it (even as part of the introduction. Hi Rhonda, are you white?)
She continued to explain that maybe he hadn’t been around people of many different backgrounds and was trying to get straight what qualified as light skinned, and what was white. Since no one is really white, especially not to a child familiar to Crayola crayons, maybe he genuinely didn’t know.
Yesterday I spent a bit of time thinking about residential segregation and residential integration, and how it’s possible in this city, in any city, for black and white folks not to know very much about each other. Though this child’s immediate surroundings are predominantly black, communities ten blocks away are rapidly changing, have expanded to include people of various shades and languages. This is the new DC. How will he make sense of those individuals when he meets them? What crucial life lessons in diversity, multiculturalism is he missing as a consequence.
On the flip side, has he already begun to understand who’s who, and like the pencil drawing of his pumpkin, was just practicing with me?
Maybe the student was thinking the same when he commented, “You don’t have muscles.”
Well, I looked over at my limbs, they are a little flabby. I agreed with his innocently blunt assessment. “No, I don’t.” He continued to ask my opinion of other important matters, like how he should draw mean eyes for the pumpkin, but stopped to clarify something he’d also been thinking about: “You’re light-skinned, right?”
I blinked, looked at him. Smiled. “Yes.” I chuckled, amused at his confusion. Again I looked down at my skin for any sudden transformations in color, like a mood ring or a person who easily blushes. I wasn’t a mood ring and I don’t blush easily. Apparently, though, my limb was endlessly fascinating, as he continued to comment on the semi-translucent quality of my hands that revealed raised green veins. Since the theme now was “Ms. Henderson’s Multicolored Arm,” I turned it over for the real treat. Lighter than the outside of my arm, you can see veins from my wrist to shoulder (though we stopped appropriately at my elbow).
“If we were to cut ourselves right now, would our blood be the same color? Or would mine be green?” Initially he seemed to accept the possibility that I could have blood a different color than his. Quickly, he dispensed of the idea. No, he shook his head. Even the noses on the pumpkins are fake.
His question later struck me as funny in its obvious nature. Of course, I think to myself, I’m light skinned. Did he think I was dark? No, my co-worker explained. He was asking (she lowered her voice) if you were white. It never occurred to me. Why not ask, “Are you white?” Yes, it’s rude, and I fully expect anyone I meet to do it (even as part of the introduction. Hi Rhonda, are you white?)
She continued to explain that maybe he hadn’t been around people of many different backgrounds and was trying to get straight what qualified as light skinned, and what was white. Since no one is really white, especially not to a child familiar to Crayola crayons, maybe he genuinely didn’t know.
Yesterday I spent a bit of time thinking about residential segregation and residential integration, and how it’s possible in this city, in any city, for black and white folks not to know very much about each other. Though this child’s immediate surroundings are predominantly black, communities ten blocks away are rapidly changing, have expanded to include people of various shades and languages. This is the new DC. How will he make sense of those individuals when he meets them? What crucial life lessons in diversity, multiculturalism is he missing as a consequence.
On the flip side, has he already begun to understand who’s who, and like the pencil drawing of his pumpkin, was just practicing with me?
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 3:47 PM
1 Comments:
this is a serious article. would love to see something like this on the regular in the city paper...
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