A Child's View of Color

From the back seat of the car, I could sense something was happening.  Something bad.  My parents talked in lowered voices as the car was slowing down.  We were passing through an area known for having a larger population of “colored people,” a common term back then, and we were just about to drive past the Blue Bird, a meeting place for the locals.  

That wasn’t unusual but something was different this night.  My father spoke in a hushed voice, saying “There must have been a fight.” My mother nodded in agreement. 

My father was a tall, solid man with broad shoulders and big muscles.  He wasn’t afraid of anything, but his voice reflected concern.  As the car inched forward in traffic, I tried to see outside while also starting to feel afraid, although I didn’t yet know what of. 

The interior of the car was dark and the night sky was almost black.  There were lots of flashing lights of red, yellow, and white in sharp contrast to the darkness. And then I saw him.  Even though I could barely see over my father’s shoulder in the driver seat, I did see the outline of a man on the street, close to the car.  His skin was very dark and shining from drops of sweat, which created their own tiny flashes of color on his face.  And, there was the gash in his skin… an open wound on his cheek, revealing bright red blood. 

Through the closed window, my father told him to step away from the car as he drove forward slowly, obeying the policeman’s direction as he was guiding traffic.  I stared wide-eyed at the man as we passed by.  Who was he?  Why was he cut and bleeding? Why did things seem so chaotic? 

That scene stayed with me all these years later, not just about the bright colors against the dark but it was a feeling.  A slight fear, but knowing we were protected as my father was there.  But there was an underlying fear of the unknown… of people that were different, of a situation that felt unfamiliar.  I was always a quiet and observant child, keeping watch from a distance and taking in information from my surroundings. Whenever I hear the phrase “We all bleed the same color” I am reminded of this incident.  I have no idea who that man was, but he became part of me that night…embedded in my memory and curiosity about other people.  No matter what some people want to believe, human beings of different races, countries, religions, backgrounds all have some things in common.  We are born, we will live for a limited amount of time, we will pass on.  Those are just the facts. 

The question is… what will each of us do with that limited time on earth to not only have a good life for ourselves but that will contribute to others having a good life?  What will each of us do to accept differences in others while retaining our own sense of independence?  What will each of us do to lift others up and not beat them down thinking that’s the way to feel better about ourselves? 

How did I learn this at such a young age and yet others never learn these things in a lifetime?  When things are difficult and it seems like there is no hope for society, I want to believe with all my heart that I’m not the only one that understands this.  

There are many others that know for certain that “We all bleed the same color.”