It’s hard to explain
Inherently it’s just always been strange
Neither here nor there
Always somewhat out of place everywhere
Ambiguous without a sense of belonging to touch—“Outside”
My first encounters with racism1 were like a first kiss in reverse: each time, a piece ofpurity was ripped from my being. Left behind was a spreading stain, which seeped2 sodeeply inside of me that to this day, I’ve never been able to completely scrub it out. Notwith time, not with fame or wealth, not even with love. The earliest of these encountershappened when I was about four years old and in preschool. The activity for the day wasto draw a portrait of our families. Laid out on the table was a stack of heavy- stockconstruction paper the color of eggshells and small groups of crayons for us to pick from.
While I much preferred sing-along and story time to coloring, I was excited about theproject and determined3 to do my very best. I thought if I did a good job maybe the teacherwould decorate my drawing with a gold-foil star sticker.
I chose my supplies carefully, found a quiet corner, and got busy with the assignment.
At that point, our family of five had not yet fractured. For a short time, I had a father, amother, a sister, and a brother, and we were all living together in what felt to me likerelative peace. I wanted to create a family portrait I could be proud of. I wanted to draw allthe different unique things about everybody—their clothes, their heights and proportions,their facial features—all the little details that would make my portrait come to life. Fatherwas tall, and Mother had long dark hair. My brother was strong and my sister had herpretty ringlets. I wanted to capture all of it. The sound of crayons rubbing on thick papercreated a dull hum as the faint, comforting scent4 of Crayola wax wafted5 through the room.
Deeply engaged with perfecting my masterpiece, I was curled over with my headdown, nose nearly touching6 the paper, when I felt a tall shadow fall across my quietcorner. I knew instinctively7 that it was one of the young student teachers looming8 over me.
At four years old I had already begun to develop a keen watch-your-back instinct, so Iimmediately stopped moving my hand. Tension rose up and stiffened9 my little body. For areason I did not yet know, I sensed danger and felt suddenly protective. I held absolutelystill until she spoke10.
“How ya doin’ there, Mariah? Let’s see.”
Relaxing a bit, I lifted the paper toward her and proudly presented my family picturein progress. Immediately, the student teacher burst into laughter. She was soon joined byanother young woman teacher, who also began to laugh. Then a third adult came over tojoin in the fun. The cheerful buzz of children working with crayons stopped. The wholeroom had turned to stare at what was happening in my little corner. A brew11 of self-consciousness and embarrassment12 boiled up from my feet to my face. The whole class waswatching. I managed to speak through the stifling13 heat in my throat.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked.
Through her giggles14, one of them replied, “Oh, Mariah, you used the wrong crayon!
You didn’t mean to do that!” She was pointing at where I’d drawn15 my father.
As they kept laughing, I looked down at the picture of my family I had lovingly anddiligently been creating. I’d used the peach crayon for the skin of myself, my mother, mysister, and my brother. I’d used a brown crayon for my father. I knew I was more like thecolor of animal crackers16 and my brother and sister were more like Nutter17 Butters, whilemy father’s skin tone resembled graham crackers. But they didn’t have any cookie-coloredcrayons, so I’d had to improvise18! They were acting19 like I’d used a green crayon orsomething. I was humiliated20 and confused. What had I done so wrong?
Still cackling hysterically21, the teachers insisted, “You used the wrong crayon!” Everytime one of them made the declaration the whole gang laughed, laughed, and laughedsome more. A debilitating22 kind of disgrace was pressing down on me, yet I managed topull myself up slowly, eyes burning and brimming with hot tears.
As calmly as I could, I told the teachers, “No. I didn’t use the wrong crayon.”
Refusing to even give me the dignity of addressing me directly, one of them said to theother snidely, “She doesn’t even know she’s using the wrong crayon!” The laughter andtaunting seemed like it would never end. I stood glaring up at them, working very hard notto vomit23 from embarrassment. But despite my nausea24, I did not break my glare.
Eventually the laughter started to subside25, and one at a time they backed away fromthe picture and from me. I watched them across the room, huddled26 together andwhispering. They had only ever seen one member of my family of five: my mother, whodropped me off at school each day. She was the color of the peach crayon. They had noidea and no imagination to suspect that the light toast of my skin, my bigger-than-buttonnose, and the waves and ringlets in my hair were from my father—my handsome fatherwho was the color of warm maple27 syrup28. His complexion29 was a crayon color they didn’thave; brown was as close to right as I could get. It was the teachers who had got it allwrong. But despite their cruel and unwarranted attack, they never apologized for thepublic humiliation30, for their ignorance and immaturity31, or for demoralizing a four-year-oldgirl during coloring time.
By the time I made it to first grade, my family of five had crumbled32 like cookies. Myparents divorced, but although they were living a short car ride away from each other,racially their neighborhoods on Long Island were worlds apart.
In first grade, I had a best friend named Becky. She was cute and sweet and looked justlike the Strawberry Shortcake cartoon to me. She had big blue eyes, smooth strawberry-blond hair that was naturally sun-kissed and hung perfectly33 straight down like heavydrapes, and reddish freckles34 sprinkled across her whipped cream–colored cheeks. In mymind, she looked like what little girls were supposed to look like. She looked like the littlegirls who were adored and protected; like the little girl my mother might’ve had with aman her mother would’ve approved of.
One Sunday, our mothers made arrangements for Becky and me to have a playdate atmy house. I was delighted because Becky and I really had fun together. When Sundayfinally arrived, my mother picked up Becky in whatever ragtag car she was driving at thetime, and we headed to my father’s house. We pulled up to the brick town house, andBecky and I hopped35 out of the car. I grabbed her hand and skipped excitedly up the steps.
Curiously36, my mother hung back and watched—ordinarily she would have driven off. Justas our feet hit the top of the stoop, my six-feet-two-inches-tall, dashing father emergedthrough the door with a hearty37 grin. He looked like a movie star.
“Hiya, Mariah!” he called out, giving me my usual greeting. As he neared us, Beckysuddenly released my hand. Her body froze stiff and, like a bursting raincloud, sheexploded into tears. Confused, I looked to my father for help, but I could see that he wasfrozen too, and breathless, a mortified38 look twisting his strong features. In a state of shock,my mind scrambled39 as I tried to process the abrupt40 and painful turn of events. Becky inhysterics, my father in silent agony: how had we gotten here in a single instant?
I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck there, unmoving, for what felt like hours but waslikely merely moments. Finally, my mother came up behind us on the stairs, to Becky’srescue. Without even a glance in my direction, she gently placed her arm around thedistraught little girl and wordlessly guided her down the stairs and into the backseat of hercar. My mother sped off with the strawberry blonde, without ever making any attempt toclarify what had happened. There was no consolation41, no mediation42, no acknowledgmentof the devastation43 to me or my father. In the wake of Becky’s storm, my father and I stoodquietly together on the stoop and waited for the ache to pass. Nobody ever mentioned itafter that, but we never played together again, and the moment remained with me forever.
And, believe it or not, her name really was Becky.
No one ever outwardly questioned my ethnic44 background when I was alone with mymother. They didn’t dare ask about, or else could not detect, the differences in our huesand textures45. Becky, and most likely her mother too, had probably just assumed my fatherwas also white, or maybe something exotic—but certainly not Black. That day on thestoop I learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I was not like the people I went toschool with or who lived in my neighborhood. My father was totally different from them,and they were afraid of him. But he was my people; I came from him. That day, I sawfirsthand how their fear hurt him. And his hurt deeply hurt me too. But what was perhapsmost painful, that afternoon, was that he saw that I saw their fear of him. He knew itwould impact me forever. He knew I could never return to the innocence46 all childrendeserve.

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收听单词发音

1
racism
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n.民族主义;种族歧视(意识) | |
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2
seeped
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v.(液体)渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 );渗透;渗出;漏出 | |
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3
determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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scent
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n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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5
wafted
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v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
touching
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adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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instinctively
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adv.本能地 | |
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8
looming
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n.上现蜃景(光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼)v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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9
stiffened
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加强的 | |
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10
spoke
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n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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11
brew
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v.酿造,调制 | |
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12
embarrassment
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n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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stifling
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a.令人窒息的 | |
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14
giggles
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n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 );傻笑;玩笑;the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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16
crackers
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adj.精神错乱的,癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 );薄脆饼干;(认为)十分愉快的事;迷人的姑娘 | |
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17
nutter
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n.疯子 | |
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18
improvise
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v.即兴创作;临时准备,临时凑成 | |
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19
acting
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n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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20
humiliated
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感到羞愧的 | |
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21
hysterically
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ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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22
debilitating
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a.使衰弱的 | |
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23
vomit
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v.呕吐,作呕;n.呕吐物,吐出物 | |
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24
nausea
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n.作呕,恶心;极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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25
subside
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vi.平静,平息;下沉,塌陷,沉降 | |
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26
huddled
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挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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27
maple
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n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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syrup
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n.糖浆,糖水 | |
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29
complexion
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n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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30
humiliation
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n.羞辱 | |
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31
immaturity
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n.不成熟;未充分成长;未成熟;粗糙 | |
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32
crumbled
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(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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33
perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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34
freckles
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n.雀斑,斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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35
hopped
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跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 ); 单足蹦跳; 齐足(或双足)跳行; 摘葎草花 | |
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36
curiously
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adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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37
hearty
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adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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38
mortified
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v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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scrambled
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v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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40
abrupt
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adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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41
consolation
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n.安慰,慰问 | |
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42
mediation
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n.调解 | |
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43
devastation
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n.毁坏;荒废;极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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44
ethnic
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adj.人种的,种族的,异教徒的 | |
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45
textures
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n.手感( texture的名词复数 );质感;口感;(音乐或文学的)谐和统一感 | |
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46
innocence
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n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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