My Husband has Skin of Brown.

Mary Grace has skin of white tinted gold, hinting at her Italian heritage generations back. Her skin tells a story of long summer days in her youth spent on the warm beaches of the Connecticut coastline. In her mid thirties, after discovering that she could not have children, she opened her heart and home, and she saved me. She stepped in as a mother at a time when my own was unable, and from her I learned the meaning of the words unconditional and compassionate. I also learned that one must always finish all of the cereal that one pours into a bowl. Mary Grace is a Christian in the most literal sense, following the bible as closely as she can. She fears many things, avoids many things, and often times, her fears are inconsistent with the willingness with which she has accepted my husband. However, when we sit down together at the dinner table, such things are irrelevant. Mary Grace is, has always been and will always be, the mother of my heart 

My husband has skin of brown. He is quite possibly, the same exact shade as the gingersnaps I bake each year for Christmas. He was born into the crowd and color of India but only a short year later, his family relocated to Bangkok for his father’s work. He had a childhood of freedom and mischief, running around the neighborhood with friends and basking in the constant love of his mother. He came to America for school, and quickly learned about the harshness of a midwestern winter while suffering from a lack of Thai street food. As a physical therapist, he has worked hard to make his patients stronger, and has become a friend and means of encouragement to the many who have been in his care. Though not quite American, he is most definitely American, and can often be found on his couch shouting at a football game.

Genevieve has skin of white, a flawless complexion to go with her stunning smile and long brown hair. She is thinly built, but with a deceptive strength. She has been hurt and she has been afraid, but she is so strong. She lives near Switzerland in the east of France and when discussing her hometown, she speaks with a pride similar to that of a proud mama. Upon asking her where to visit before a trip to Paris, her eyes focused far away and her voice grew wistful. “I had a moment,” she said, and proceeded to describe  emerging from a train station in central Paris, while a delicate snow blanketed the city under the soft glow of twilight street lamps.  She did not simply tell me a place to go, as most people would have. Instead she gave me her moment, an infinitely more valuable gift. 

Jim has skin of olive, dark hair and a perpetual mustache. As an ethnic Muslim Albanian, he came to America from a country that no longer exists. He worked as a line cook and through the years, worked his way up to being a contractor. He learned English quickly by simply trying and failing over and over again. He was a wonderful father to my younger brother and brought a sense of calm to a home that was so desperately in need.  From him I learned that mac 'n' cheese need not come from a box, that bread is not always sliced, but torn, that there is integrity in hard work and that though life may spin out of control, one can have the strength to build anew.  

Amelia has skin of brown and dark eyes that reflect kindness bred from a difficult past. She and her husband come from Guatemala and work incredibly hard to break a cycle of poverty in order that their children have opportunity and happiness.  Amelia struggles daily to live life in a language not her own. She and I met in an ESL class and conversed frequently in a mixture of horrifyingly bad Spanish and rapidly improving English. She has moved up to the next class, but each Saturday afternoon, her two children stampede like little elephants, up the steps to my apartment to learn piano, and to color pictures... pictures which are now taped to my fridge.

Esther has skin of white with a hint of olive, a gift from her mediterranean father, and her face shares features with her Jewish American mother. When she moved to America, she left her family in Brussels and Valencia and her boyfriend in England. She moved into my spare bedroom and from that point on, we learned. She learned that, no, she could not put me, her roommate, on her work health insurance, and I learned (or attempted to learn,) how to cut potatoes without a cutting board. I followed her to sushi shabbat as she endeavored to find a home synagogue in a new city, and she followed me to mass, where I cantored.  Together, we made Christmas cookies and Hamantaschen, we set up a Christmas tree and lit candles on the Menorah. (which the cat loved to sleep next to as we had decided to raise her Jewish) We went kosher for passover, eating far too many macaroons and we watched Fiddler on the Roof while singing along. We married within a year of each other, she to a Catholic man and I to a Hindu, thus permanently confusing the cat.

Sister Barbara has skin of white with a rosy rouge on her cheeks, Her white hair is closely cropped and her stride has slowed to a shuffle as the years have added to her wisdom. She wakes each day to do battle, to demand better of herself, her church and those around her. She slays her enemies not with hate, but with her heart and kisses cheeks indiscriminately. She kisses the dying, the healthy, the clean, the dirty, the strong, the fallen, the young, the old, the happy and the devastated. And if while kissing my husbands cheek, she happens to ask him, ”Do you works out?!”   Well... 

Samira has skin of brown with large kohl lined eyes. She is a strong, beautiful, independent woman with a loving husband and two adorable imps for daughters. She works hard to keep her family on track and reads every book she can find on raising children. She is confident in her career, and she balances time with skill that any planning manager would envy. She and I talk of our faith, comparing quirks and anecdotes of each and she wraps her love of God and freedom of speech around her in the form of a beautifully colorful hijab. After all, her religion is not the same as the one we hear of on the news.  As I look at how lovely she is, I wonder if I would be so brave were our roles reversed. 

I have skin of white, the kind of beige that if I leave off makeup for a day, people inquire after my health. I am Catholic, though I have a heretical view that God can be found in many names, through many paths. I adore my church, my community, my music, my students. I have everything I need, but still everyday, I fight my own battles. I battle fear and anxiety and I fear that the events of my daily life are small and shallow. I fear that I have no power to change anything in myself and in the world around me. I fear that I won’t write, that I won’t stand up for my opinion. I am afraid that my freedom of speech wouldn’t need to be taken from me, that instead I would toss it aside out of fear of disapproval. I fear that in the wake of recent events, there are those I love who may be less safe because they may pray in a different way or have skin of a different shade. 

We have freedom of speech, and so many have died to gift us this right. We have the right to speak hate and divisiveness and we have the right to speak love and unity. The choices we make point to our own true color. And so as time speeds and I find I may have more years behind than ahead, It becomes vitally important to me, that I use my gift of free speech to spread love. This is my personal war with fear and I am stepping up to the challenge. Each day I will work to be brave enough to smile and say hi to those who may be different from me. Each day, I will acknowledge that I do not know everything, that every person I meet can be my teacher. I will fight to make sure that the words from my mouth reflect the combined knowledge and grace of those I love. When I reach the end of my life, I want...  No... I NEED to look back and see that the story I have written is one full of love. This is the war I choose to wage. 

After all, 
Nous sommes Charlie, Nous sommes Ahmed, Nous sommes Mary Grace, Nous sommes Jim, Nous sommes Genvieve, Nous sommes Amelia, Nous sommes Esther, Nous sommes Samira and so on.. Nous sommes tous. 

We are everyone.

I am everyone.

Je suis tout le monde.