Growing up, my cousin’s boyfriend of the time was black. And he was as familiar a face as any other people in my family. He held me when I was born. They were 15 when I was born. And now 19 years later, they are happily married with a son who is as handsome as the day is long. My cousin's husband is a fly in a glass of milk, and I could not picture my life any other way. Fast forward from birth to second grade. It is February and my teacher says its time to discuss black history month. “What is that?” I thought. Do blacks have a different history than George Washington? Why, what is different about them? My teacher begins by showing us all two lollipops. One is red and one is blue, she asks which will taste better. She then continues to say “well what if I said they both have no taste on the outside however, the inside of both is bubble gum.” It is only the inside that counts. She goes deeper into black history: MLK Jr, Rosa Parks, etc. She then asks if we happen to have African American friends. I raise my hand proud to show off my cousin’s boyfriend. I tell my teacher about how my cousin's boyfriend is African American and her expression changed so quickly. I walked out of class hearing the other teachers discuss how “trashy white women always go for black men”. She didn’t even know my cousin. Who is she to judge?

When I was four I lived in Northeast Philadelphia and I had one friend who lived on my street; an African American girl named Autumn. I loved spending time with her and riding our bikes, it was the best childhood ever. Eventually, I moved to the suburbs and I began classes at school. I looked around for a familiar face, maybe someone who even looked like Autumn. Not a single African-American person in the room. I felt my heart sink, I hated change and I did not want to have to make new friends. When I began to question why everyone looked the same and why no one was African American. “What do you mean black people, I’ve never seen a black person before.” I’ll never forget that response.

I’m in college now and the two best friends I made at school are African American and mixed. But I don’t see that. I see my best friend who lives 45 minutes away that I desperately feel the need to speak to every day. I see someone who helps with my problems rather than create them. I do not see a girl whose mom had a child with a black man. I see my therapist, my anchor sometimes, and someone I go to so she can provide me with laughter and happiness. I do not see color. People from the suburbs, the “White Neighborhoods”, have almost no interaction with African Americans. People from the suburbs see color. I do not. I see you as a person. Because that is what you are. You have two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth. You see green, blue, red, the sunrises every morning for you just as much as it does for me. The world turns at the same pace for you as it does for me. As my second-grade teacher taught me, the outside does no justice for the inside.