Color: (n) pigmentation of the skin, especially as an indication of someone’s race.
To find a real black person you have to go deep into Africa.
The only white people are albinos.
To get yellow skin usually requires liver disease.
And red skin is any one of a number of young girls in Fort Lauderdale during Spring Break.
Yet for some reason we decide to take these colors and differentiate not only race–not only customs–but certainly intelligence, morality, violence and quality.
What actually is the difference in color between an American Negro and an American Hispanic, or an American housewife of Beverly Hills after leaving the tanning booth?
It can’t be about color. There just isn’t that much variation.
And of course, once you get right below the epidermis, we all pink up.
So what in the hell is this all about?
At one time we were so frightened there wouldn’t be enough squirrels, rabbits and wild turkeys in the woods, so we tried to thin the herd of our human competition by making them lesser, therefore teaching them they couldn’t eat the actual meat of the buffalo, but could have all the internal organs they wanted.
Are we still stuck in that survival mode?
Are we so terrified that we’re going to be exposed as lackers or slackers that we try to characterize one group of people as already occupying that space–and then colorize them?
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