I stopped at a gas station on the edge of the Navajo reservation. For the first time in my life, I looked different than those around me, and I understood the word minority.
Whispering voices and tiny footsteps shuffled and followed me out of the building and towards my car. I looked over my shoulder and saw four, young boys.
One set of dirty sneakers kicked rocks. The others stood in a cluster. All stared at the ground.
“We heard you were coming.”
More rock kicking.
I nodded. I bet they heard. I heard about them too.
I heard many refused their culture and dismissed their history.
I heard their parents drank anything containing alcohol, even hairspray.
I heard little joy resounded in such an empty place.
I heard education held little value here.
“My mom bought me a shirt to wear on the first day. It says Reebok. You can see it at school.”
The rock kicking stopped as four sets of dark, brown eyes glanced up.
Could a thirty second conversation about a new Reebok shirt challenge everything I heard? Maybe now I would do more than hear. Maybe now I'd start to learn.
Have you ever been in the minority due to your race, gender, class, or religion? How did you feel? I'd love to hear about your experience.
Today I'm joining others from The High Calling in a community writing project focused on crossing cultures. Click here to get the details, read some posts from writers you may not know, and oh, it's not too late to share your story!
Also, linking with the weekly Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood.