Seeing Red (article) by Missy Cross on AuthorsDen

Would you tell the Reverend Al Sharpton that he looks really brown today? I can't take it anymore. With all of the national debate over last week's firing of Don Imus, and mainstream media's current fascination with the South Korean ancestry of Cho-Seung Hui, the disturbed loner who massacred 32 of his fellow students at Virginia Tech on Monday, I feel it's time for me to throw my hat into the ring. I am an aggrieved party. I face the most subtle and pernicious social discrimination every day. I know I'm not alone. And after facing thirty nine years of continuous well-meaning harassment over the color of my skin, I can tell you, dear reader, that no matter how politically correct you may be, and no matter what your own racial composition is, it is far more likely than not that you yourself have inadvertently committed offenses against me and my kind. You see, although I am one of those people who is typically classified as "Caucasian", the color of my skin is nowhere near white... it is, in fact, a rosy pink. (Ironically, I recently discovered that one of my great-grandfathers was black, so that actually makes me an octaroon.) The good Lord created a panoramic palette of flesh tones in humanity, and when he looked down on me, he declared, "Thou shalt be scarlet." And ever since then, people have felt perfectly free to remind me of that fact... several times a day. I have travelled all over the world in my lifetime. I have met a staggering number of people from every color and creed imaginable. I have vast exposure to other cultures on this great planet. While I have observed that the tendency to make assumptions about people based on their skin color happens (regrettably) in one way or another, in every walk of life, never have I heard people publicly proclaim how brown or black or green or yellow or orange their neighbor's skin is. Most reasonable folk would never dream of indulging in such commentary... either because they recognize that human skin comes in a rainbow of colors, or because they fear of being branded a racist. Such observations are simply not considered socially acceptable enough to pass as small talk, unless one is standing at the punch bowl at a Klan rally in one's finest white linen. Why then, do most of the people who would recoil at the suggestion that they are not above the unfortunate human tendency to let skin color cloud their judgment, feel it is perfectly polite to tell me that my face is red? Some might argue that a flushed face can indicate an emerging health crisis, and that they ask out of concern. To those good Samaritans, I offer the following guidelines: If you think my face is red because I might be choking, ask yourself: "Is she eating?" Most speculation ends right there. But, in the event that we are, in fact, dining together, then ask yourself: "Can she talk?" Perhaps you can ask me what my favorite color is, and see if I reply. If I don't, then ask yourself: "Is she gasping, flailing, or otherwise displaying signs of distress?" If so, I will probably forgive you for observing that my face is red... although I would probably prefer it if you simply inquire as to whether I am all right. If you think my face is red because I might be having a heart attack, a hot flash, a bad case of sunburn, or some other affliction, rest assured: I already know there is a problem. If I am in your presence and this is the case, I have already decided that whatever precipitating health condition I might be suffering does not warrant immediate care. Trust me to monitor my own health and to let you know if I need assistance. You can also trust me to suppress the violent anti-social impulse that I will endure if you do decide to comment on the color of my face. If you think my face is red because I have been drinking, then it might be a good idea to evaluate our location. If we are in a bar, the odds are so excellent that you are correct, that there's really no need to point it out, unless you want to start an argument about who has drunk more. If I am in my car and you are a state trooper, rest assured that I never drink. Ever. If we are anywhere other than a bar, or a car, (say, for example, we are in a library reading "Green Eggs & Ham"), you could look for more reliable signs, such as whether I am reeking of alcohol, stumbling, or making prank phone calls. Or you could simply suggest we go to a bar and end the speculation. I'll love you forever and probably buy you a drink, and I won't even say anything if you get flushed as a result. If you think my face is red and you need to let me know because perhaps I didn't, ask yourself why you need to point this out. Do you need to be the person who's smarter than everyone else, whose brilliance in pointing out the obvious will supersede my own awareness of the 12 pairs of cranial nerves that translate sensory input from my face to my conscious attention? Or are you seeking to initiate small talk with nothing more creative to say? In either case, you must decide whether your personal psychological needs are worth the offense to my person. And, you might wonder whether your mother might expect you to have better manners. I know mine did, which is why I have, to date, resisted the urge to answer the 53,192 varieties of "Your face is red" that I have heard in 39 years with the comeback of "Yeah, well, you sure look yellow/ brown/ peach/ etc." But be warned, my resistance is weakening. So, dear reader... please, for the love of God, do me, and my crimson brethren, the courtesy of resisting the urge to comment on our skin color. It's not socially appropriate. It's not remotely helpful. You embarrass us, and we can't do anything about it, except to either explain it away (which is awkward) or comment on your skin color in return (which is rude). All you really accomplish is to point out that we don't meet your expectation of what "white" is supposed to look like. And really, which of us Caucasians does?

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