Editor’s note: April is Diversity Month. Our writer shares childhood recollections about being “different.”
By Ramona DeGeorgio-Venegas
A little girl version of myself had a new coloring book. On one page was a pretty lady who looked like a princess or Snow White in a cartoon. I asked Mommie what it said under the picture. “It says, ‘The good princess’,” she replied. I colored the dress two kinds of blue, with a yellow collar. Then I asked her, “What color is ‘good?’” She just smiled and said that good doesn’t have a color. So, I made her face a peachy orange and her hands yellow, to match the collar. I hadn’t learned yet. My crayons didn’t stay within any lines.
Jump forward a few years. I heard someone in the kitchen talking about a “racist.” I thought that was cool, driving race cars. Maybe like the ones I could hear at the fairgrounds on a big track or like ones that crashed into each other at the derby.
I lived in a larger Montana city. What I saw was my world, and my world looked like me, except that I had freckles. I’d never heard of white privilege. We were okay; our clothes were clean, even if they were hand-me-downs. We never went hungry; mom could stretch a pound of meat. A rare treat was a takeout bag-o-burgers or a pizza brought home. We never went to a restaurant. There were seven of us kids at home.
In my high school, kids hailed from two junior highs, so there were new students to meet. Two of them had big, really curly black hair that I wanted to touch. One boy had long hair he pulled back into a ponytail, like me. One day I sat at his lunch table. Ben was lighting matches and staring into the flame until he almost burned his finger.
I asked him, “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for God,” he said. Then he tried to explain, “I am a Kiowa.”
Well, I was still not very enlightened.
Someone else asked me later, “Why were you talking to that Indian? He’s a no-good redskin.” I replied, ”Well, I think he’s nice.” My inner child wondered: What color is “nice?”
Ben stopped coming to school that fall. His skin wasn’t red, and I never saw him again.
Other students who were different stayed in school. One joined the same club as me. I got to know Veronica well. She invited me to a celebration at the air force base. That was my first taste of sweet potato pie and of being the only “white” person in the room. Everyone was kind and friendly at the event; what color is kind? Another student was fun, with a baritone voice and a folk guitar. Andre still plays at gigs all over the Pacific Northwest.
Both my friends keep in touch via social media. What color is friendship? Fortunately, for many people, friendship is a kaleidoscope of colors, tastes, smells and connection. I’m so glad for my full box of crayons!
As an adult, I’ve lived in places where I didn’t look like everyone else. They didn’t care and neither did I. We worked, played and lived together: young, old, able, less able, richer, experienced and neophytes. We shared and learned and grew. I wish the same for you all. When we remove the label, the fruit is still sweet, tart or bitter. Added together, the salad is delicious. Embrace our differences and our sameness as you smile at a stranger today.
Ramona DeGeorgio-Venegas is a retiree of the Manistee Ranger District, Huron-Manistee National Forest, where she worked in recreation and as an outdoor recreation planner.
