Its not inatree...
Its en-EE-tree
or...
en-EE
only Tally,Izzy and Judus can call me Inatree...for now anyways ;)
Fun Stuff
Say Yes (*Re-written*)
Tonight it is my turn to wash the dishes. My husband had washed the night before, now he dries them. He is so unlike the other men, considerate, he helps with the housework. Just last month a friend told me how rare it was to have such a considerate husband. I’m not sure he knows how much it is noticed, but noticed or not, he still does it.
The only thing wrong is sometimes he has a strange point of view on certain subjects. Tonight’s discussion seems to be one of those interesting topics. Whether interracial marriage should be allowed or not. He says that considering everything, he believes it’s wrong.
I pause, looking down at the bowl in my hands, a dark brown with a creamy trim…black and white. “Why?” I ask him, wondering why it would be so wrong. I feel my brows come together and bite my lower lip, knowing that his answer will be displeasing. He doesn’t answer, so I repeat myself. “Why?” I swish the water around the outside of the bowl, still looking at the colours, wondering why it would be wrong. The brown and pale cream looks fine together.
He takes in a breath, “Listen, I went to school with blacks, I’ve worked with blacks and lived on the same street as blacks, and we’ve always gotten along. I don’t need you coming along now and implying I’m racist.”
I sigh, knowing he understood me wrong. “I didn’t imply anything” Hoping to end the argument I start to wash the bowl again. Turning it around in my hands I watch the cream trim mix in with the dark brown of the bowl, then decide to try again, “I just don’t see what is wrong with a white person marrying a black person,” I shrug, “that’s all.”
I could almost feel him getting upset; he tries to tell me about different backgrounds and cultures. I still don’t understand what is wrong with it. In the end it is still just a man and a woman falling in love. What would it matter what tone their skin is? Why would it matter if one came from a different culture? I run my hand over the bowl again, hardly hearing him as I trace the trim as it slowly melts into the dark brown, becoming one in the same, the way two people become the same when they marry. They share each other, become each other…love each other. My thoughts are broken as his voice changes tone, “...but its different. A person from their culture and a person from our culture could never really know each other.”
I blink, slightly confused, “Like you know me?” I ask quietly, so not to seem offensive.
Watching him out of the corner of my eye I see him pause, then nod “Yes. Like I know you.”
I return to washing the dishes, washing the bowl, wondering if the cream trim is only hidden by the brown, wondering why he thinks people are so different, just from backgrounds and the colour of their skin. I try a new approach, “But if they love each other.” Hoping he will see that, like the bowl, the colours can run together in harmony. I rinse the bowl and leave it in plain sight, hoping he will see what I mean as he picks it up to dry it. I’m sadly disappointed as he simply dries it and puts it away.
“Don’t take my word for it. Look at statistics. Most of those marriages break up.”
I frown, biting my lower lip again. Why can’t he see that if a man and a woman fall in love, truly in love, then no matter what happens they can get through it. Skin colour doesn’t matter or cultural background. Love is love. I find myself getting slightly annoyed that he can’t see this, my hands flying over the dishes, knowing I’m missing some spots, but needing to keep my hands busy. “ All right.” I sigh, dropping some silverware into the rack, “I suppose you think the same thing about two foreigners getting married?”
He nods. “Yes. As a matter of fact I do. How can you understand someone that comes from a completely different background?”
I frown “Different.” Thinking on my own childhood, so different from his. My family’s views, activities and celebrations. “Not the same, like us.” I feel my frown deepening. He and I, we were not the same. His views were always different than mine.
“Yes, different.” His words carry a sting. He is getting angry at me, as I is at him. He grabs the silverware and dumps it back in the water. “These are dirty.” I watch the silverware sink into the dirty water. Slightly angry now, I thrust my hands deep into the water, reaching for the fork I saw last. Suddenly a sharp pain shoots through my thumb and up my arm. “Oh!” I gasp as I pull my arm back; grabbing my wrist I stare at the small trail of blood starting to run down my thumb.
“Ann,” His voice soft with concern now, my husband steps forward. “Don’t move. Stay right here.” He turns and runs upstairs. I stay there, leaning against the refrigerator as I watch the trail of blood run down my hand. I know it’s not deep, but it still hurts. I take the time to think about his argument, closing my eyes, wondering if he thinks that we are the same. I look up as he comes back in, stand as he takes my hand and dabs the blood away. I can’t help but feel it is his fault. If he hadn’t thrown the knife back in there I would have never cut myself. He squeezes my thumb lightly and murmurs gently “It’s not deep. Tomorrow you won’t even know it’s there.”
As he holds my hand I can’t help but wonder how he would react if my skin were a different colour. Would it matter to him? Would he still love me? My thoughts are once again interrupted as he sighs, “I’ll finish up here, you go and relax.”
I shake my head slowly, knowing a small cut like this doesn’t need to be overreacted to. “That’s okay. I’ll dry.” I watch him carefully wash the silverware as I dry the dishes, thinking on the bowl. My thoughts once again turning to how he would react if I were black. I try not to bring it up, but feel as if I have to know. “So,” I say carefully and quietly, “You wouldn’t have married me if I had been black?”
He drops the fork he was cleaning back into the water “For Christ’s sake, Ann!” I know hes angry now, but I can’t stop now that I’ve started. “Well, that’s what you said, didn’t you?”
He tries to defend himself. Telling me this is ridiculous. Telling me of a childhood club member he had that was black. Telling me that if I were black, I would most likely have been going out with a black guy, not him.
“Lets say I wasn’t going out with anyone. Lets say I am black and unattached and we met and fall in love” I watch him, biting my lip. Waiting for his answer, wanting him to answer my question, but afraid at the same time.
He sighs, putting the dishes down. “Look. If you were black you wouldn’t be you.” I stare at him. Knowing his words are true. I wouldn’t be me. My family would have been different. My views and thoughts would be different. But that doesn’t matter. I want to know his answer. “I know” I say gently, “but lets just say.”
He looks at me, straight into my eyes. I feel a slight shiver as I see his thoughts turning over in his eyes. He takes in a deep breath, as if bracing for something. He looks slightly scared, but replies anyway, “Say what?”
I look up at him, waiting for a moment. “That I’m black, but still me, and we fall in love. Would you marry me?” He stares at me. Not talking, not moving. Thinking. I don’t want him to think about it. I want his answer. The true answer. “Well?” I say as I step closer, looking up at him, almost whispering “Will you marry me?”
He frowns “I’m thinking.”
“You won’t” I say, slightly disappointed. “I can tell. You’re going to say no.”
“Let’s not move too fast on this” he says. I sigh, knowing he is just buying time.
“No more considering. Yes or no?”
He shifts on his feet, looking worried, “Since you put it that way—“
“Yes or no?”
He sighs, “Jesus Ann. All right. No.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Needing time to think on this I turn and walk to the living room, pick up a magazine and sit in the armchair. Slowly flipping through the pages, looking at the pictures, thinking on his words. No. He would not marry me if I were black. He might love me, but not enough to marry me. It hurt. I was in no danger of losing him, but I couldn’t see why it would matter. I would, in that scenario, still be me. The only thing that would change would be my skin colour. I could hear him washing the rest of the dishes. Hear him drain the sink and wipe the counters down. Soon the light scent of floor cleaner reaches my nose. I realize that he is trying to prove something to me. I just wish I knew what. Would he do it if I were a different colour? Would he go out of his way to help me with the dishes and clean up each night? Would the same friend that told me last month how rare it was for a man to help, tell me that it was rare for interracial marriages to work? I flip the page slowly, hearing the back door open and close, a slight draft moving through the house. I think back to the bowl, wondering why two people can’t live together like that. Two colours working together, complimenting each other. I sigh, putting the magazine down and walk to the bedroom, then to the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, picturing myself a different colour. I touch my face lightly, imagining what would be different. What would make my husband love me less? The colour? The shape of my face? I touch my hair, picturing it black as the night, instead of the light golden colour it is now. Would it be the length of my hair? The colour of my hair? I trace my lips, thinking on how they would be different. Would he still kiss them? Would they be so different he would find them unattractive? I hear him call my name through the bathroom door but I don’t answer, too wrapped up in imagining myself as someone else. What about my name? Would my name still be Ann? Would he find it so hard to call out a different name? He calls me again. I sigh and blink, my own face swimming back into view, replacing the one I had imagined for myself. My creamy white skin and light blonde hair contrasting the previous face I saw. I lower my hand, accidently knocking over a bottle.
“Ann,” I hear him say from the other side of the door, “I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I listen to his voice. He almost sounds choked. I sigh, giving in to the emotions building up inside me. I turn towards the door,
“How?” I ask quietly.
There is a pause. I hear him lean against the door, take a deep breath. Then he whispers “I’ll marry you.”
For a moment I picture myself as the woman I saw in the mirror. My hand reaches out and touches the door. I smile lightly and briefly. “We’ll see. Go to bed. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I hear him leave, then turn back to the mirror, completing my imaginary transformation into someone else. I open the door and call from the hallway. “Turn out the light”
“What?” he asks clearly confused.
“Turn out the light.”
I watch the room darken. Standing there I listen to the rustle of the bedding, his breathing, “Alright.” He says. I stay there, watching the darkened room. My transformation changing the way I stand, I listen a while longer. When he talks next he seems almost worried “All right.”
I smile, slowly stepping into the room, moving through the shadows, my movements different as I challenge his consent to marry a different person, a stranger.
that is my rewritten version of THIS story:http://neptune.esc.k12.in.us/socratic/resources/SayYes.html
by Tobias Wolff
A Dream to Dream
If there were a dream,
To dream, I would dream it.
The dream to float along a steam,
And slowly sink down in it
Lily Dreams
Little Lily by the stream,
What is it that you dream?
Do you wish to float along?
And forever more be gone?
OOC O.O
This is me.
I am nerd. :D
