Counting the Color to my Cheeks

I had heard about them before, but never seen one. Perhaps because of the sheltered country girl life I had in a small town in Saskatchewan . I had grown up with a mostly eastern European, Ukrainian and Italian racial mix, as well as Cree Indians and the odd Dukahbor. But I had never seen a colored person, truly colored. They only existed on the news or in books.

Years later I moved to Vancouver Island and met my husband. I got introduced to the musical world of Bob Marley and the Whalers, island rhythm and big bad reggae blues. Still, my exposure was limited to record covers and the odd televised concert. It was only when we went to Vancouver on a day trip that things changed.

In this exotic locale of wooden boats, salt-water hippies and street artists called Granville Island we wandered around. We ate seafood as fresh as it could be and searched for a shell shaped night light. After going around several shops we finally had the courage to ask where one might be found. Someone suggested, "why not try the shell shop?" It was on the way to the shell shop I first heard it: The familiar sounds that had been etched in my mind by my musically inclined husband. Then I saw them, four of them, sitting by the dock as the water lapped in time to their music.

The crème-brulee skin, charcoal husked of island living, the laid back sensuous lips and the deep dark eyes. Four black musicians, some with drums others with guitars in wild colored clothing. But it was the hair that truly blew me away. The tangled ropes that were never brushed running down his chest, his bare dark chest, in multi layers. These were the dread locks I had heard so much about. I wondered what they would be like to touch, but there was something too magical bout them and I dared not. For the song that he sang so sweet and husky, the lyrics of fighting the Bad man, fighting the society, man, while onlookers gathered and smiled.

Then it hit me. "Oh my Gawd!" I said, not knowing I was talking out loud, "its a Rastafarian!" My husband did not speak but quickly guided me away, lost into the crowd. The singer smiled and took another puff, and carried on. I wondered what he would have done if I had stayed, but my husband was embarrassed but what he deemed to be a racist blunder on my part. Later, I wondered if he secretly wished he had never introduced me to his tales of Jamaica and his Bob Marley albums.

As our two girls grew up I tried to make sure the same thing wouldn't happen to them. I introduced them to races of various types, using politically correct words etc. Eskimos were Inuit, Indians were First Nations, Negroes were Blacks. I also introduced them to a wide range of literature that featured people of different nationalities: Baby Rattlesnake, The Rainbow People, Legends from the Igloo, The Arabian Nights; I thought I had it covered.

Visiting my parents in Kamloops we wandered to the mall, my girls five and three. Sitting on a bench were two old East Indian men in traditional dress. Before I knew what was happening my eldest daughter pointed. "Look mom, a genie, just like in the story!"

As color spread rapidly to my cheeks the old gentlemen laughed and smiled. Thank the stars and the powers that be! They had not been upset by my daughter's remarks and as she edged closer, she reached out to touch their wonderful robes. She dared not touch the turbans for like that Rastifarian's dread locks they must have seemed magical to her. For they had been so in the stories her mother had told her. We visited the men every day for the two weeks we were there, and although the language was sometimes a barrier, the smiles and the laughs said it all. We had been accepted.

My friend Sasha, an Ethiopian, laughs at my stories. She tells how when she first saw a group of white people she thought she had arrived in a village of sickness: They were so pale! Her mother had a different reaction. She screamed in fright: We were all so fat and well fed…we must be cannibals. I am glad I am not the only one whose mouth caused color to rise.

I wish I could say I was never again shocked by the appearance of others. This diverse world of color, race, costume and culture often sends me for a tailspin. But its what we do after that initial reaction that judges if we are to accept or reject this world and all its wonderful inhabitants. Shall we walk away, our faces red, or scream in fright? Or shall we reach out to touch, no, to embrace the differences that make us all "magical."

- Nancy Bennett