A Pride of Color

Porcelain skin, veins visible at the surface, raised greenish blue.

I, at fifteen, had hair thick and red like that of a Hereford, minus the moo.

A smattering of freckles on the bridge of my nose swept out across my cheeks.

Legs gangly as emerging tadpoles preparing to run spring creeks.

Scot Irish ancestors stayed in damp Highlands while our family scattered.

Settling in the City of Angels, as if where mattered.

Few were as fair as I. Fewer still with auburn tresses.

Lively girls arranged jet black hair and chose quinceañera dresses.

I saw blondes with tan legs glistening beyond faded short denim.

And girls with lovely crescent shaped eyes, skin perfect like a powdery lemon.

Darker girls with dancing eyes, whitest at the edges, circled by deep brown and black,

Black hair in glorious forms, some full and some held elegantly back.

I felt like a barber’s shop light, seeking acceptance, twirling against a white-washed door.

And, the one holding the color wand waved it wildly teasing out, “more, more, more.”

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