There is a boy at camp that is Indian.
Oh really, so he is from India?
No, like... (fanciful dancing, waving arms, patting his oval mouth with his hand)
He dances like that?
So did you talk to him?
No, I can't speak Indian.
He was speaking...Indian?
No, he was speaking like regular.
Oh...so what was the problem?
What if he started speaking Indian?
Ummm...how did you know he was an Indian?
He has long hair, down to his butt. And he told the other boys.
You know I used to have long hair.
Dad, you are not an Indian.
How boring would this mosaic, we call life, be if we were all painted in the same drab colors? Would the eerie tingle we feel in our bowels when faced with a stranger grant us a reprieve and allow us boldness to speak? Or would we continue to walk on by engrossed in our own space, eyes cast down, as we listen to the soundtrack we selected for our life on our iPod?
Are stangers really strange or is it just our insecurity over walking away with a little paint on our hands, from someone who does not look, think or act like us?