Imaginary Walls: Solid as Any Bricks

Race. Class.
Colour. Money.
Call it what you will.Dress it up or dress it down. It is there.
But is it really?
Should it be?
Are we so different?

     As I wander along the lakeshore I gaze at the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, lean into the wind, and let the sound of crashing waves fill my ears.
    I am reminded of a childhood filled with gazing at the ocean, feeling the harsh wind on my skin, tasting salt spray on my lips, and waiting for Daddy to come home, across the powerful, unforgiving water.
    A simple childhood - growing our own veg, fishing, hunting, building our home, running wild amongst the trees and the brush - and, in my opinion, all the better for it.
    I pass a group of fishermen, women and children, on the beach, preparing the nets for a day’s fishing.
    They stare as I pass, some smile, some greet me: “Hey Muzungu! Wuli Makora?!”    And I have the uncomfortable feeling of being a spectacle to some, a source of resentment to others. Apart, certainly.
Muzungu.
White.
    But also, aside from the colour of my skin, associated with so much else. Money. Privilege.
And therefore, apart.
Close enough to see the colour of each other’s eyes, but somehow miles apart.

But are we?
Really?
Are we so different, that girl and I?
You, who gazed at me with that hard, judgemental stare as I took a morning walk?Beyond colour, money, and opportunity, on some deeper level, are we not more similar than this divided world allows us to perceive?
Or are those factors important enough to cement that brick wall in place?
Colour. Money. Privilege.
Do those differences rend irrelevant any similarity, familiarity, that could exist between us?

Please don’t gaze at me in resentment, wonder, or envy. Please don’t become my friend or my enemy because of what my pale skin represents.
By all means, choose to love or hate me, but please judge the person that I am.
And in turn, I shall try to do the same.