My black father

I am a white girl, and so my dad,  and my whole family, but my father desguised himself as Baltazar, the Black King of Orient, every year on January 6th during the Epiphany festivity and visited many orphanages and distrubiuted presents to the kids in need. He painted his skin with black shoe ointment, so he turned black for real, and he, we couldn't be prouder. For instance, I always thought my father was black. It took me years to notice that he was not black, that he had the same skin color as me. I realized it when I asked my mother if they have met in Africa, my mother laughed and laughed, it was obvious my skin color was as white as his, but I never saw any barrier, for me it was perfectly cool that my dad was black and I was not. (I believed he was only enhancing his skin color). 

     That might be the reason why I had never understood racism. The skin color is as irrelevant as the bank account, the amount of properties, the country of origin or the car we drive. We are not defined by those things, these should not matter, as much as the human being that lays behind a pair of eyes. Fears, dreams, conquest, goals, battles, loses, caring, sharing, listening, commiting, learning, that is what defines us. We were born in the same world, we have been breathing the same air, we pee the same components, we share the same atoms. We all need sunblock. We feel hunger, and joy, and thirst, and pain. We feel. We all feel. We should be proud of each other, enjoy from our differences and learn from them, like cooking a white rice or a wild rice, cooking BBQ or Creole, singing BonJovi or Areta Franklin. We sing the same notes, even though a standing ovation will go on forever on my behalf for Leontine Price, Maya Angelou, Whitney Houston, Tina Turner, Ella Fitzgerald, Diana Ross, Jessye Norman, Barbara Hendricks and Louis Armstrong...We are the world, stop stereotiping!