I remember the days when I lived in Hawaii. The days when it was just my mom with two little girls and a crowd of strangers. The days when she wept on our pull-out-couch of a bed. The days when I didn't understand why she would always hesitate to go out of our hole-in-the-wall apartment. The days when she tried to keep her head down in the grocery store. I saw only the luscious green trees and bright shades of flowers around me. I never noticed the prejudice the locals threw at my mom. “It’s just the Philippines with a different name,” She told me once. I didn't understand. We were mainlanders, they fumed. We came here to take more of their land. Westernize their islands. Change their way of life. My mom suffered through isolation. She bore it in silent tears. These people had never given our little misplaced and American family a chance. Within our crumbling apartment complex was one friend; Mike. His height, light brown hair ,and Californian accent was such a contrast in my little world, the difference so strange. “Mommy,” I asked, tugging on her shirt one day, “what's wrong with him?” Looking up from the mail we had come to collect, a smile spread across her face. “He looks like he’s from our neck of the woods.” She cooed into my ear.

Last month she told me about the glares given to her. The scoffers thrown at her. The food spit in, and how, after finding another American to befriend, it didn't bother her. Prejudice has long been the bane of liberty. Blinding those who most need their wisdom. Bias scorns the freedom of clear thoughts. It infests every continent, every country, every mind. This curse has yet to be purged of this world. Its natural addiction in humans can still be found in your neighborhoods, schools, even friends. Religion, race, and status has determined peoples fates since the beginning of time. Genocide in Germany. Purge in France. Massacre in Africa. I have never had to face death because of my choices. I am free of deadly prejudices.

Our country's founders, English Puritans, were ruthlessly persecuted for their religious choice. Forced out of the country by their own king, their so called “protector”. For this reason we have been granted the blessing of liberty. Bias no longer decides who will live and who will die here. No where is untouched by prejudice, yet in the hearts of each American a care for every individual difference is found. We do not scoff at one's appearance. We are accepting. We are kind. We are the amazing misfit toys. We were raised without the barbs of bias.
How we came to be, the feets that were leapt, where we are now, and where we are going are pieces of us that will never be ignored. Pieces gratefully lacking one portion of the puzzle; Prejudice. Prejudice, though it may be rooted in neighboring lands, allied lands, or even our mother country, will never seep into the souls of our people. The majority may hold the power. The majority may believe its path to be just and the majority may keep to its way, but we will always lend our hands, both of them, to anyone who looks upon an American with need.
Charles Dickens once spoke of intolerance saying, “He had but one eye and the pocket of prejudice runs in favor of two.” Those who bear two eyes, the ones with white skin, the ones with the, so called, ‘correct’ religion, create and control prejudice. While those who carry only one eye are subject to this intolerance. America is made of the one eyed. America is nothing but differences. America is the melting pot so famous for its opportunities and acceptance. Not one country has diversity of people like this. Every culture, race, and belief finds a place in this home for amazing misfit toys.
Our haven of acceptance is not taken for granted. Those who have not been given this gift, suffer. Mud covered boots trampling on dreams of religious freedom. Stamps of prejudice on each arm. Piles and piles of people, loved ones, never given the chance to free themselves from damming injustice of inclinations. Today, genocide thrives where bias thrives. Dark blood mixing with pale brown dirt. Cries of the one eyed. The innocent victims in the moonless night. Not in our country. Not among our people. Not in America. Not while a caring heart still inhabits this land. Today a dollar is handed to a man who sits on a snow covered street corner. A hand is extended for a fallen stranger. A smile is passed to a wounded friend. A piece of hope gifted to a small girl. Who are we? We are Americans. You will know us by our friendly faces. Our great full words. Our gracious actions. Our kind and unbiased hearts.
So when I think of those humid days in Hawaii, a smile seems to creep across my face. Yes, we were given a hand. Long rides at sunset to the grocery store and back in a 1960’s van. Yes we were passed a smile. Many a cookie handed from a ruff and tanned paw to a spider silk pale little grip. Yes we were gifted hope. Countless conversations of reassurance, convincing us with quiet words that, ‘Everything will be OK.’ Yes we were helped by an American. I am certain of a blindingly bright future for this land. I am certain because of the people who make this country. I am certain because of Mike.