Calling Me Out

I passed a little girl in the parking lot walking with her mother.
I noticed her beautiful red hair.
The little girl was too young to realize that her red hair is really lovely.
I noticed.

I wished that I could have told the little girl how pretty her hair was, but it was not the place.
If I had seen her in the checkout line with her mother, I cold have told her.
If I knew her or her mother, I could have made sure she knew.
As quickly as I saw them, they passed by me.

I married a man who had red highlights in his hair.
My children have red highlights in their hair that can be seen in the sun.
My younger son has a beard with quite a bit of red in it.
Apparently, loving red hair was not something I can always claim.

I remember coming out of church with my mother.
I was only in second grade.
A little girl came running out of her way to say, Hi, to me.
I never answered her and looked the other way.

That little girl said hello to you, my mother pointed out to me.
Why didn’t you answer her? She continued in a serious tone.
I don’t know, I answered.
My mother stopped and got down to my level and looked me straight in the eye.

Why didn’t you answer that little girl? My mother asked again.
I mumbled something quietly.
I can’t hear you, my mother persisted, still looking right into my eyes.
Because I don’t like red hair, I said and then was immediately sorry the words were spoken.

My mother looked terribly sad.
She grabbed my hand and walked briskly to the car.
After we were in the car and the doors were closed, she began to talk to me.
I knew by the look in her eyes and the tone of her voice, she was not pleased.

I am very sad about the way you treated that little girl.
You decided that she was not worth your time simply because of the color of her hair.
Do you know her? My mother asked trying to piece together this puzzle.
She is in my class, I told her, embarrassed.

That little girl has beautiful red hair that God made, my mother explained.
She has beautiful skin with lots of freckles that God created.
I am sad that you decided to be unkind simply because of what the little girl looked like.
What if someone did not want to be friends with you because you have brown eyes?

I remember the tears began to fall quietly at first.
My reason for not saying hello seemed so wrong as my mother explained it.
I was unkind and she wasted no time telling me.
Looking back, she was wise to remind me that I chose to be unkind.

There were other options.
My mother made that clear to me.
When we got home she pulled out a box of Crayola crayons.
She removed the red crayon and the orange one.

My mother removed every crayon from the box that had even tinges of red.
What are you doing, Mom? I asked.
Can you draw a sunset without these colors? She asked holding the crayons in her hand.
Can you draw an apple?

Can you draw a heart?
Can you draw a firetruck?
Can you draw a stop sign?
Can you draw the berries on the holly bush?

I knew that the answer to all of her questions was, No.
I said nothing.
I think you get the idea, my mother explained.
How drab the world would be if God did not create the color red, she said pulling me close.

When you go back to school tomorrow, I want you to apologize to that little girl.
I want you to admit that you were unkind to her.
I hope that this is the last time you will ever treat someone like this ever again.
We never judge people based on the way they look, she said hugging me.

I went up to my room to change out of my church clothes.
I was scared about apologizing to the little girl.
I was scared that the little girl might ask me why I was unkind.
I went downstairs and got a piece of paper and the box of crayons.

I sat at the kitchen table and drew a picture for the little girl.
I drew a picture of the two of us playing at recess.
I drew brown hair on myself.
I drew flaming red hair on her.

We were smiling.

Then Peter began to speak, “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right. (Acts 10: 34,35)

All these years later, I still remember the lesson my mother taught me.
I made a ridiculous judgment based on the color of the little girls’ hair.
Even now, it does not make sense to me since I absolutely love red hair.
However, the incident happened and my mother dealt with it immediately.

It was not acceptable.
It was unkind.
I judged based on appearances.
I was called out by a very wise woman.

Could it be that our prejudices are learned?
Could it be that we simply get away with poor judgment that soon melts into our heart?
Can we imagine a world without differences?
Do we fail to accept what God created?

I still cringe when I think of the entire incident.
As a grown woman and a mother of five grown children, I am deeply grateful to my mother.
Her wisdom and forthrightness were a gift to me and by extension to my children.
I am glad she called me out the way she did.

I have never forgotten.
She did not let a seemingly innocent remark go by the wayside.
It was wrong, absurd, unkind, and ugly.
Prejudice begins small; even with the color of a person’s hair.

Thanks, Mom.