It’s true, the King of Pop said it himself, and he was spot on. People always want to see things in black and white, something good and something bad, something wrong and something right. But where do these traits start? They start with our schools when first graders are handed out sheets of paper and taught to cross out the different object. They start when children are taught that the color black usually resembles bad, evil even. These traits start when a third-grade teacher tells a little girl that no she cannot play Snow White in their school play because Snow White ‘was called Snow White for a reason’. They begin at home. They begin when parents teach their children to cross the street if walking on the same side as a man of color. It begins when children observe their own parents cower and switch check-out lines when the cashier of one line is an African American woman. It begins when a child sees an African American woman wearing a hijab and begins to ask, “what’s that mom?” just for the mother to respond, “I don’t know sweetie, it’s some sill thing that black people wear.” It all begins somewhere; we are not born racist. We are taught to cross out what’s different, we are taught that the color black tends to represent evil, we are taught to be ignorant to another culture just because it is different from ours. But why?

If you take away the labels of black or white, what is left? If no one could ever see color, would we have the problems we have today? Would we still hate each other for absolutely no reason, would we still cross the street to avoid a certain person, would we still be a little too happy when it comes to pulling the trigger? We are power hungry, we are obsessed with the idea of having “white privilege” and we are obsessed with trying to keep the whites as supreme. So obsessed that we elected someone who is just as racist as the rest of us. That is not a call for change.

Imagine being told you could no longer see your best friend, your soul-mate, the rock that seems to somehow keep you afloat. I worry sometimes that my life might come to that. You see my best friend is black. Both of her sisters are black, both of her parents are black. They are all different shades with different style hair, all go to church praising our lord and thanking him for all he has done and gotten them through to this point.

My mother was diagnosed with cancer back in April and I can honestly say I don’t think I would have made it through her battle without the help of my best friend. I can remember lying awake every night not moving and somehow it was just like she knew, she knew I was hurting, she knew I needed help, she knew I needed her. And there she was. Waiting to help me every chance she could. And now it is my turn.

I try to make some things different, some things I do on purpose, others I do not even notice. Someone once asked me what my best friend is like. “She’s very funny and she’s very pretty, she was an honor roll student all of high school but she really knows how to take care of me when I need it” was my answer. Three days later the same person who asked about my best friend looked at me when they met her and said “You didn’t mention that she’s black”. So? Show me the relevance. Show me where I was supposed to tell you that her skin is as pretty as nice little Hershey’s kiss or that she changes her hair all the time but whatever style she has she rocks. Show me where I was supposed to mark down that she is black, because I don’t think that point matters other than on a census. It certainly does not to me.

It took a while for me to get to this point, but I’ve never met anyone with the same mind as me. I’ve never met anyone with the same worth ethic or ideas as me. I’ve never met anyone with the same heart. This is an ode to my best friend, a bad-ass bitch I’m so happy to have met.