A pile of crayons covered the table in front of me, lined up in color order. Red sat at the left, all the way to violet at the end. The variety of colors all looked beautiful as the flowed into the next color. With so many different shades, the crayons felt as if they sprang with soft velvet life that warmed my small pale fingers. Yet, two crayons still needed to be placed in the row. Black and white stood alone at the side of the pile of crayons and I couldn’t decide where to put them. I thought for a while, wondering whether white should go to the right and black to the left or black on the right and white and the left. Then, I think a little longer and wonder if I should put them both to the left or right. I shake my head as I get off the chair, leaving the black and white crayon to the side. Opening the back door, I step into the fresh brisk air outside, leaving the crayons to decide themselves where black and white should be placed in life.
My arms swing from side to side, as I skip down the road. For some reason, I still consider each spot I could place the two colorless crayons. I try to think where they belong in a rainbow, but black and white are not in a rainbow. No place seemed to fit for either of the crayons. I tried to compare the crayons to life. Where does black and white fit into life? My head began to daze and it took me a few minute to realize I heard yelling. I turn my head toward the noise and saw a man with dark skin like the night sky and a pale old man with wrinkly skin. Both of their voices attempted to rise over the other, debating a conflict I tried to pick up on.
“You filthy black scum! How dare you insult me!” the old man shouted with rage burning though his eyes.
“I didn’t do anything you white racist devil!” The black man spat. For a while the argument went back and forth and I still had no idea why they called each other “black scum” and “white racist devil”. None of it made sense to me. A random flash of a memory flashed into my head. My mother once told me of people who judged people on their skin. I remember I didn’t get it because why would anyone care what color skin someone had? Did they not like the color on them or something? But my mother explained that the conflict went back many years ago and that people for some reason see the world as black and white, right and wrong, left or right. I still didn’t know why.
The yelling grew louder, rougher, ruder and many people turned their heads to watch. Loud insults rumbled in my head until I wanted to slam my head on the wall. Unable to tolerate the yelling, I turn my back from the two men and walk back to my house. Their voices continued to ring in my head until I got far enough for the voices to fade. When I got home, I found my mother came kitchen; waiting for me to come home. She welcomed me with a warm smile and I beamed at her. Remembering the crayons, I went straight to the table where the crayons rested. The colors smiled at me, happy to see me, happy to shine, happy to be life; however, the black and white just stared blankly. I reached for the black and white crayons and felt the smooth wax in my hand as I walked to the garbage. When I let them slip from my hands into the trash with a thump, I wondered why do I see the world so full of color, but others do not. I stared down for a moment; then, faced my mother, noticing she watched me with a hint of confusion.
“Why did you throw away those crayons?” She asked me, a hint of curiosity in her voice. I could tell her so many things, so many reasons. I didn’t a moment of hesitation to answer.
“Because the world isn’t in black and white.”