Imagine a world in which everything is the glowing blush of a white man’s sunburned pate. From the roller skates to the window panes to the cassocks of the lonely, self-righteous priests. Every car, McMansion and office park, all that confronts you—every shard—insulation pink, pink panther pink. Labial pink.
You don’t quite have it.
Really think pink!
The sky stretching out endlessly over the bent down head that sports your unhappy face is pink. The tempestuous ocean where you imagine your dreams will struggle briefly in the foam and chop before invariably sinking like stones is pink. The long, curving roads—snaking through endless pink forests and pink fields and empty pink cities—all somehow leading to the same vast pink empire of nowhere are pink.
Everything but you. You are black. Black as a dark star.
In America, this is what we call high school.