I’m not a racist and I know that because I don’t know what racism is. I have friends who run, friends who don’t run, and friends who don’t even appreciate running. That’s about the extent of my understanding of “the race” thing. You can imagine my surprise when I asked where my “chocolate face” friend was, and everybody around me looked all aghasty-like.
I wasn’t being funny or snarky, in fact I was trying extra hard to be serious, and even harder I was trying to be clear. I said it loud, I said it proud, “Where’s my chocolate face friend?”
They didn’t understand me, so I kept asking until I gave up. It wasn’t that my request expired, it was my requesting that did. I quit asking, headed upstairs, found him and brought him down.
What? What’s the deal? This is my chocolate face friend. I didn’t buy him, it was a gift. How was I supposed to know that other people would impose their age-old expectations atop my brand new, perfectly direct statements?
If I offended anybody, I didn’t mean it. I don’t have preference of Nestles over Hershey and I can’t let you box me in like this. I even have friends who are tall, and I’ve come to generally mistrust the tall over time. Not that they’re bad people, we just don’t always see eye to eye.
I just think that before someone can be a bigot, they first have to be big. Sometimes I say I’m big, but I know better. Mostly I’m told that I’m big, but I back out of it, insisting that I’m still small. It affords me the luxury of not having to understand all the same rules, comply with the same “should have known better” sorts of restrictions, and definitely steers my cattle a mile wide of hot button discussions just like this one.
Above – I’m not sure what all the fuss is about, but when I asked for my new Chocolate Face friend, I stirred a bit or two of controversy in the house. I know Hershey’s isn’t exactly the finest confection in town, but he’s my good friend and I love him dearly.