Colour spelt differently.

Note : Along the lines of "I am no poet" (see other posts), I present to you " I am no fiction writer". Worked on this during a workshop with the lovely Ms Priya Chabria. Based in 60s America against the backdrop of the civil rights movement. Influenced by "American Dreams".

What would happen if our skins met – hers ivory, mine honey. Would the world fall into its centre? Much worse, I’d expect. I mentioned her to Al the other day. I tried to hide my fascination for this girl behind ordinary comments but Old Al knew. I could tell from the worry that overtook his eyes, and the faint smile on his lips. The white girl, we called her. For reasons I didn’t know, I couldn’t speak her name. Al didn’t ask for it.

I saw how this looked to the others around me, on both sides, but Betty Miller was not mere forbidden fruit, a fetish or unconquered territory. She was more than that; I loved the person beneath the skin. I loved her past the invisible barricades that divided us. At that time of night when one believes the next day could bring forth thousands of unforeseen blessings I dreamt of a world in which I could call out her name across the street, meet her in the park, take her hand even, without having to be exposed to the stares , the accusers warning me silently .

Betty was the daughter of the man I worked for and age was the only thing that did not separate us. We spoke often in the store when she came over to help her father. As we grew closer I noticed she visited more often, preferring to sit nearby and watch me work instead of running the cashier or arranging boxes somewhere. We argued about this new musician called Bob Dylan – Betty thought his music was splendid and revolutionary, I thought he rather sounded like the frogs in the tank. She never understood why we couldn’t go to the record store together, or why I couldn’t grab a milkshake with her down at the soda shop. She would like me to believe these little requests of hers stem from naivety but I know her better, it’s a stubborn streak in her that will not let me accept things the way they are. She wants me to fight and she wants to let me know she’d be by my side, but she doesn’t realize this isn’t her battle to fight.

I did not know if she felt the same way about me as I did about her. I didn’t know if she imagined our futures together, if she believed a child that received enough love from its parents could bear any amount of people accusing it of being an abomination. And even if she did see me the way I saw her I didn’t know if she was ready to face what must be faced if she were to accept me. I didn’t know if I was ready to let her face the outrage, the alienation that would greet a union like ours.…

The bell on the door rings and I recognize her footsteps. I watch her from behind a shelf for a second, her blonde curls framing the softness of her face. I step out in front of her and she receives me with a hug for the first time. “Hello Simon” she whispers into my ear and I know deep in my heart, I’m ready to fight. I owed it to myself, to her, to us.

- Deborah D'souza, blogokplease.blogspot.com