Racism through marigold eyes

The first time I encountered racism was on the streets of San Antonio Texas.

I was walking with my two grandchildren. It was Halloween night.

The candy collection was going well, some people just gave us candy. I noticed that some dug down deep for the worst candy, that may have been my imagination, we were a few black folks in the midst of a sea of white faces out having some fun. But was it my imagination? I will never be sure.

It is the nature of the beast. Always looking out for the anomalies, I guess.

My granddaughter has a phobia to maple leaves. Whether it is the shape, the contour of the fingers, seemingly reaching out to point at you lovingly or accusingly, depending on how you look at it, I have no idea, but she will take off running and screaming if the wind blows them towards her. It is a challenge getting her to walk past the maple trees.

At first we teased her about it, but then I realized that it was truly traumatic for her. This greatly affected our nature walks because there were maple trees everywhere, and the wind was always having a grand time blowing those leaves.

There was this lovely house with early blooming marigolds that we would stop and admire. Alitha especially loved the purplish blue ones. The owner of the flowers had noticed her a day earlier and had snipped the bloom and given her the gift of the beautiful marigold flower.

This flower garden helped to distract her from the maple trees, and I always referenced it to get her outdoors and walking.

I placed it in a vase for her, when it becomes dry I will frame it like a picture and hang it on the wall. It will be her portrait as an ode to resilience.

This was a kind white lady, a totally opposite reaction to us just being people than to the narrative playing out below in this story.

So, there we were on all hallows night getting our usual glance at the marigolds when beer bottles started shattering at our feet.

I quickly turned around, shielding the children behind me, only to see a pickup truck filled with young white hooligans chucking bottles at us and shouting "n......rs, go home.

They kept driving, feeling good about themselves, laughing and congratulating each other.

What struck me as terrifying was that these could have easily been bullets and that our lives hang by only a frail and delicate thread , and that one bad decision by one or more jackasses can be detrimental to peace and safety.

Maybe this really happened, maybe it did not. But let us color it FICTION.

I hugged my grandchildren.

I turned to have another look at the marigolds, and saw reflected in them the color strata of the universe, where one color deems itself far superior to the other or others.

Not the marigolds though, they were co-existing happily with each other in peace and harmony.

It is sad. These people exist in the stratum of society, in the narrow niches and fringes, never venturing out of their tiny world to see the great possibilities of a vastly and more diverse strata that could open a dynamic and multi-faceted dimension of health, wealth, prosperity and generosity of spirit.

These occasions rob of of our joy and plant instead the seeds of fear and loathing. Luckily we were not hurt.

I hurriedly ushered the children home. Our evening was somewhat ruined. But I recalled the generosity of that lady smiling and kindly snipping the marigold for my grandchild.

The contrast of the two encounters shows hope for the generations of the world.