Hey, Red!

By Lynnette Horn

"Hey, Red!" you call out when you see me jogging in the park. You think you know me by my wavy, red hair. Set ablaze by the sun, it flashes my heritage like a neon sign. Shamrocks tattooed across my forehead would be less obvious. You intrude my space with rude familiarity. Any polite distance between us you trample under foot. Your eyes trail from my fiery hair down my body and rest on parts you can only imagine. "Red on the head," you say with a raised eyebrow and lascivious smile. You don't surprise me. I've heard all the jokes and know how to deal with your kind. One more step and you'll find a knee in your groin.

"Hey, Red!" you call out when you see me walking down the street. You think you know me by my wavy, red hair. You trail behind me with your pack of buds--teasing, taunting, and forever harassing. You must be the progeny of my grand-da's tormentors from years long ago. "Mick!" they'd spit and slam their doors to his face. If left to their wishes, he would have died, jobless and starving, long before I was a twinkle in a twinkle of an eye. My cheeks flame with indignation, but I won't give you the satisfaction of turning around. There will always be ones like you, who are scared of anyone different. Even when intolerance has gone out of fashion, you'll still rage on.

"Hey, Red!" you call out when you see me sitting at the bar. You think you know me by my wavy, red hair. You walk over to me, all broad-faced and eager, wanting to connect; but it's not St. Pat's Day, so you stumble around for words. You want me to recognize that one thirty-second Irish blood buried in you, passed down from your great-great-great grandmother on your father's side. I don't...of course. But, you mean no harm, so I keep it to myself. Instead I smile, "You must be Irish." You smile back and our eyes connect. We share a momentary bond of fellowship. It's good for a free drink. You'll never hear from my lips that being Irish is more than just a choice.