Confession

I’ve been burdened by my shameful secret for months now and must confess.  First a bit of background to mitigate my sin.

     Over the years I’ve heard many white people comment that black people look the same.

     ‘The dark-skinned people all look so similar,’ I’ve been told.  ‘Don’t you think so?’

     'Not really.' 

      Having spent most of my life in PNG or on TI I assumed these people hadn’t spent much time around black people.  To be honest I’ve never given the matter much thought, except to have a giggle.  And another giggle when black people, like my husband have said white people look the same.

     Well, I’ve been in Cairns for five months now and my confession is:  White people look the same and there are so many of them.   

     In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter if I confuse the white woman on checkout 3 at Coles with the white woman in the ANZ bank or the white man in the bakery with the white man in the post office at Trinity Beach.  I am not going to see them very often and I don’t need to remember them.

     The problem is at school.  In a class there are lots of pale skinned, fair-haired and blue-eyed cherubs, about 25 of them.  

     I thank the Lord for the average of two children with syrup coloured skin, dark hair and black-eyes.  I don’t forget the faces and names of these two darlings, but the creamy-skinned sweethearts, oh, it’s so hard.  Years ago a teacher on TI referred to the few white kids in her class as ‘the blondies.’       Well, I confuse the blondies with even the mousy haired little ones and the dark-haired white kids.

     ‘Yes, Indigo, where does the plant get its food from?’

     ‘I’m not Indigo.  I’m Taylor.’

     ‘I’m Indigo.’ A long, thin, pale arm shoots into the air.

     It’s not confined to the classroom.  In the playground I can confuse a child in year one with a child in year five.  

     You can imagine my relief when I was asked to do some teaching at a high school because I knew it was impossible to be confuse one young adult with another.  By the mid-teens, genes seem to have emerged enough so someone will have a big nose or a facial mole or buck teeth or artificially coloured hair. Surely.

     On my first day I met Tahlia in a year 12 Communication English class in the morning session.  In the other year 12 Communication English class in the afternoon session I was surprised to see Tahlia back. Surely if she loved English so much she would be taking the academic English class.

     I related to the class the task their regular teacher had set for them and moved around to assist students.  I glanced at Tahlia a few times.  It was her.  She had the same sub-bleached hair pulled into a short pony tail, the same hazel eyes and the same button nose.

     ‘Hi Tahlia,’ I said.  ‘Good to see you back.’

     Tahlia looked at me with the disdain only a teenager can achieve, a perfect roll of her hazel eyes and subtle sneer.  ‘I’m not Tahlia.  I’m Tahnee.’ 

     ‘Sorry.   Weren’t you in my class this morning?’

     She huffed and started writing.  ‘This morning I had drama and a double maths.’ 

     I moved on to the next student thinking, I bet she was tricking the relief teacher, but no student would take two Communication English classes.

     The whacky names parents come up with these days only confuses me more because they are so similar.

     Taylor-Tyler-Tileah-Tahlea-Tahlia-Talitha-Taneah-Tahnee.

     And Barton-Bardon-Brandon-Brendon-Brent-Brenton-Braydon.

     What ever happened to Susan and Megan and Damian and Peter.

     I gave up.  In high school they are either 'excuse me' or 'darling.'  In primary they are ‘darling,’ ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart.’  Then everyone is happy, most of all me.       

     Especially now I have that off my chest.