I am white. Stark raving white. I don’t mean Caucasian, though I am that as well. I’m talking complexion. I share the same colouring as that of the Abominable Snowman or a shiny new white porcelain toilet sitting on the display rack a Home Depot. It’s pure. In the right light, it’s blinding. It the wrong light, basically, my body is about as pale as that of a corpse.
I’ve always been this way. I think it might have something to do with my refusal to wear shorts or go to the beach and take my shirt off. Long pants, short sleeves… farmers tan. This is as good as it gets for me. I am mostly OK with this. I mean really, who the heck needs to see my hairy white chicken legs? And nobody should be subjected to the abdomen that once enjoyed the glory of firmness and now mourns a fate that has left it with more rolls than a bakery. It’s just not necessary to do that to people.
I went to the church camp I attended in my youth this weekend. A night out of town. No TV. No internet. No 3am dumpster fire calls. Just rolling hills (that actually bear striking resemblance to my gut), big fields of green grass, wide open, clear, star filled skies, and air that is fresh and unused – like you’re the only thing that’s ever come into contact with it. It’s a beautiful place to retreat to.
The deal is a trade. I enjoy a little solitude in nature, and in return, I assist the camp with some maintenance. Translation… I get a place to sleep for the night and they get somebody to mow those big fields of green grass. Truth is, it’s an excuse for me to drive a tractor. As a child I would beg grandpa to let me drive the tractor. I spent countless hours on his farm pleading with him. One time he let me do it. I cut a turn to short and took out the corner overhang of a roof on one of the sheds. It’s OK for me to drive a tractor at the camp now. In the mostly wide open spaces, there is little for me to hit and damage. All I have to do is keep the tractor out of the pond and I’m good.
Saturday afternoon I was at the camp alone. 50 acres of God’s handy-work all to myself. I jumped on the old blue Ford, which actually looks similar to the one I drove on my grandpa’s farm, and away I went. Cutting the grass. Out there in the sunshine, in my 50 acres of seclusion I got this idea in my head. I thought to myself, if you were ever going to try and tan your pasty white self, what better time and place to do it than right here, right now!
When you’re surrounded by trees and hills, it’s like you’re on an island, even though your not. I was sheltered from the passing highway, and I knew the airplanes overhead were out of viewing distance. I believed I could take my shirt off and do no harm. When the sun bounces off my whiteness, somebody could catch those reflections and, broken by my shadow as I moved, they could mistake it for some kind of morse code signal or something. However, since I was safe inside the confines of nature, I decided to do it. I took my shirt off!
I got back from the camp Sunday afternoon. I don’t think I was home for more than half an hour when the pager went off. Grass fire. I got up off the couch and made my way to the hall. I jumped into my boots and bunker pants and pulled them up, suspenders looped over my shoulders. Before I got my bunker coat on though, a brother firefighter commented on my new complexion. Standing next to the bright red pumper, you would have thought I was a part of it had it not been for the brown of my hair and the white of my teeth.
I raised my arms very slowly to put my coat on. I winced a little from the pain that was beginning to setting in. Then, as if I had done it to myself entirely on purpose, I smiled and said, “I’m just trying to blend in.”
Add A Comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.