Color Blind

I am not color blind. Face to face with someone whose skin color is different from mine, I notice. If that makes me a racist, which these days is considered to be the worst thing you can be, then I'm guilty. To people of a certain age, raised at a time when segregated water fountains were seen in public spaces, it just happens. It's like looking at the sky and noticing that it's blue: I can't NOT see the blue. Yet we are all supposed to pretend that we are color blind, since that makes us better people. Some fortunate souls among us truly are, no pretense necessary. My son is one of those.

I learned this fact about him when he was a teenager. I had driven Zack to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Washington, D.C. for his driver's test. Back then it was located in "a bad neighborhood," which is what the white residents of the Northwest quadrant of the city called all black neighborhoods, or basically the other three quadrants of our racially divided nation's capital.

As it happened, on that particular day we were the only two white people in the waiting room, along with about a dozen or so others there for the same purpose. We signed in and sat down. I stared at my lap and tried to look ethnic. After about fifteen minutes, it was our turn. Someone shouted "Next!" and both Zack, a thin, white 16-year-old boy, and a tall black man of about 25 (who could have stunt doubled for The Incredible Hulk) stood up at the same time and stepped forward.

Fearful the other guy would become angry or violent or who knows -- maybe pull out a knife -- I whispered to my son, "Let him go first, honey." But Zack was unperturbed. Smiling, he approached the man and said, "Dude, no disrespect but I'm pretty sure I'm next." The guy smiled back and said politely, "Sorry man, you're right. My mistake."

Later, driving home with his new license in hand, I asked Zack if he had been at all afraid of the guy. His answer was, "Why would I be?"