Yani Canetti
  Three Toys a Year
I Hate Books
The Other "Me"
Mess Ups
My House, My City
37 Times
They Say That I Was Racist...
Bad Words
Unfinished Songs
Oh, Freud
Cuentan que era racista

First I want to clarify that no, I wasn't then and I am not now. How could I possibly be racist, with such a mix in my blood? But one day, the day care center I used to go to called my mother and told her: "We think you should know that your daughter has a serious racism problem." This, said in that tone, in a socialist country, sounded like "capital punishment." My mother was a bit disconcerted and decided to take a didactic approach to eradicate my "inherited evils" (as the socialist propaganda used to call any capitalist ideas that we had "inherited").

It turns out that the uproar had begun because I was calling other children by the color of their skin: "White girl, lend me your doll;" "Black boy, come play;" "Brown girl, throw me the ball"...

My mother asked me: "OK, what color am I?" Without hesitation I answered, "Brown, like coffee." My mother persisted. "And what color are you?" "White," I responded.

Then my mother picked up a piece of paper and held it up next to my arm. "What color is this paper?" "White," I said. "And are you the same color as the paper?" "Well, no," I said, realizing that something serious was happening.

My mother was satisfied with the life lesson she had taught me. However, I was alarmed, and asked: "Then what color am I?" My mother tried to invent one so that I wouldn't feel colorless. "Well... let's see... you are beige." I didn't know what color beige was. I had never heard of it before in my life, but it sounded nice, and I was happy to have a color. It didn't matter what it was.

So the next day, the teacher went crazy when she heard me say: "White girl, lend me your doll;" "Black boy, come play;" "Brown girl, throw me the ball;" "Beige boy, tell me a story."

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