I’ll never forget my mother’s last words to me as I left for school that morning. She referred to the debate the day before, when the United States President reminded us that we are all brothers and sisters, saying “Being different can mean long or short hair, freckles or not. Our differences are what create cultures and a variety of sharing.” Our president didn’t see it that way. But then again, people were more accepting of overweight, caucasian politicians than they were of skinny black folks. President Jacoby agreed with the consensus and acted on it without weighing any feedback. I’ll never forget my last day before the president got to decide whom I would become.
Our elected president didn’t see it that way. But then again, people were more accepting of overweight, caucasian politicians than they were of skinny black folks. I’ll never forget the last day I was truly allowed to be myself.
February 25, 2029, was the last day my skin had any pigment in it. While some citizens were a week or so earlier and some a little later, by 2030 we’d all have the distinct characteristics as albinos. I found this nearly humorous when I remembered a girl in my preschool class who had been avoided due to her “natural birthright” of bleached skin tones. Still, as natural as it was for her, my skin now is natural to me.
I didn’t think people should play God and insist on physical changes. Then again, we used to have debit and charge cards before the implanted chip was inserted between our brows. Some people reacted negatively with horrendous headaches, but scientists insisted this procedure ensures theft would drop to a low without the ability to steal purses and wallets. While this seemed true, at first, the level of murders went through the roof. Imagine that. So this was the latest fix–no color would supposedly cure racial segregation.
The presidency operated in the same fashion as it usually did. The people voted on the act after hearing bloated “intelligent” men explain why blanching was necessary. Of course, they all agreed. But even now, watching the people in the waiting room exit one by one, washed out and unsmiling was like witnessing the colors being sucked from a rainbow.
“This will be better,” they kept saying. I almost agreed, until I approached the desk and allowed them to scan my forehead. “Macey Mueller,” I said. The man behind the glass exchanged glances with the woman next to him before coming back to me.
“Whoa, southern bell, you’re going to take a bit longer.” His reassuring smile didn’t reflect the same distaste as the rest of his expression. “We’re gonna need to recalibrate that drawl as well. Hope you’re not in a hurry.” He pointed me to the side of the room with a few empty chairs between an Indian family and some Mexicans. “Ya’ll mind if I sit here?” I asked. I suppose we all have something in common after all.