....Along the line...

A long the line….
It started with African kings and queens. They lived in a rich lands filled with gold, oil, and fertile soil. Their riches expanded beyond the material things. They were beautiful. They had gorgeous, dark brown skin and thick, curly, brunette hair. Then, men with no shades or color came with machines that instilled fear in people. Kings and Queens became peasants with no voices. Their lives were no longer theirs. They were sent away in ships of thousands where some died along the way. Those who made it through the journey ended in strange lands they never seen. There, they were slaves. They were not the only ones being oppressed. Apparently, the colorless men took over another land that did not belong to them. Just like them, the indigenous named Mayans, were robbed of their home by the very same visitors they welcomed with open arms. Sadness and oppression united the Mayans and the Africans. Together, they comfort each other through the tough time exchanging cultures, traditions and views.
Generations later, a young woman in her earliest twenties met a young man of the same rich dark brown skin and thick, curly, black, hair. She was different. She was lighter, her hair was silkier, her eyes lighter. Their encounter was surprising and sudden, but expected. I don’t know whether it was faith or pure coincidence, but I like to think it was premeditated by God. Their strong emotions for each other resulted in the creation of a wonderful creature, but one was not enough. The young couple shared the same opinion God did when creating Adam. This lovely creature needed a companion. And along the line, I came along. I was like an archaeological artifact. My features where like the insides or a tree trunk. I molded into different shapes of her and him and their mother, father, cousins, sister, and grandmother. Till this day, my chameleon powers seem to show up among my family.
My face took different forms along with my interest and personality. As a toddler I was quiet and hardly ever gave people the pleasure to see me to see me smile. Then as a preteen I manage to attract some attention and became addicted. Modeling around the halls of my aunt’s home, wearing the cool, pink, plastic, Barbie doll slippers my father sent me from the United States. I wanted to let the world know of my beauty. I wanted to live a glamorous life style where all eyes would be on me. I enjoyed transforming myself with clothes and begged for makeup.
But somehow along the lines between the trip from Honduras and the United States, my confidence managed to get lost. I became more quiet and timid. After a dreadful summer, forced to read books and write book reports simply because my parents said I needed the practice. If you asked me, I think they just wanted to see how long it would take before I shot myself. Fortunately, it did not come to that. In fact, as much as I hate to admit it; it was because of that dreadful summer I discovered the joy of traveling to a different universe through words and ever since I become a constant traveler. I learned that the world was not two dimensional. There were more to life than clothes and beauty. There were ideas, ideas that could create tears, pain, wars, segregation but also peace, laughter, happiness, and justice. There were no restrictions, either. It was not like voting; you did not have to wait till you were twenty-one or a citizen. Anyone could have an idea. So I did. I also borrowed, learned, read, and heard them. Turned out they were always there, and they were everywhere. I took interest in them. Along the line our relationship grew stronger. We shared a connection. Just like me, it took different forms and sometimes agreed with people and other times did not. I fell in love.
I became an idea. The idea that spoke in the voices of the former African Queens and Kings that showed that although the colorless man may have taken their land, they could never take their beauty, pride and customs. The idea that spoke in the voices of the Mayans that showed that even through the betrayal of the colorless men, they could still maintain a warm heart and extend their hands to help someone in need. The idea that declared, that even though they were tormented, dehumanized, and belittled, they never lost faith. They were stronger. Machines could not defeat them. They knew their true value. They were the owners of their life. An idea so powerful and so old, I like to think, I was one all along.