Apple, Twist, Candy Cane: Part one

White

Red

Yellow

Black

Not fish

But people

Or rather

Their skin.

A simple shade

That has both nothing

And yet everything

To do with who they are

With who I am.

People look at me and see one of three options: White-ish­, tan/maybe “yellow,” or most often the all-encompassing Brown. Brown holds the most mystery because, though it most often and stereotypically means Latino, it can be any mix of Latino, Latino and White, Black and White, and even “yellow” and White. Too many forget, though: Red is Brown as well.

I am Red.

“Redskin” is the slur used against my people as a result of the bounties placed on Native American scalps brought to the authorities in the 1800s. Colorado had a proclamation to kill any Native American and take their property, which was not rescinded until 2021. We are not “redskins.” We are not Indians, as we were mislabelled by Christopher Columbus, who thought he had discovered a new part of India. We are the Indigenous peoples of North America—pushed aside and murdered by the White colonizers from England, but not eradicated.

White is anyone descended from Europe, the land of the “civilized” and Christian. They are the ones descended from power, even Imperialist power. Funny how White skin is a genetic mutation.

I am White.

Descended from the very colonizers that began the murder of my Red Indigenous people and took over this land. Raised in a church that believes my Indigenous Ancestors were sinners and that we as their descendants must be “saved.” As if their ancestors had no sins.

When I was a toddler, my mother took us up to the reservation to meet her family. Only a year ago did I learn what my aunt screamed at my brother when he entered the room to show our mother a rock he found. 

“GET OUT, APPLE!” 

Our mother stood up. “You will NOT call my son an ‘apple.’ And you will NOT yell at my boy.”

“You’re becoming just like them,” my aunt spat before leaving the room.

“What does ‘apple’ mean? Why was that bad?” I ask my brother as he tells me this.

“You don’t know?” I don’t. “It’s a slur. It means Red on the outside but White on the inside.”

According to my aunt, I am an Apple.

On a late-night trip to the diner, my brother looks at his vanilla ice cream cone, our sister’s chocolate ice cream cone, and my “twist” ice cream cone, a mix of both chocolate and vanilla. He then looks at our mother, whose skin is darker than any chocolate ice cream, and says, “Mom, if you’re chocolate and dad is vanilla, then I’m a twist!” 

She laughs. 

“Yes, baby boy, you are definitely a twist.” When I’m older and I’m (re)told this story, I laugh too.

I am a Twist.

As I sit with my White family by the pool, I eat another twist ice cream cone, and I look at my dad. His skin burns bright red and pink. I then look at my own skin as it turns to caramel and wonder, “Why were we ever called Red when the Whites are the only ones who turn red in the sun?” I still wonder.

My senior year is full of college applications, financial aid applications, and standardized tests. As I’ve been trained, I slowly fill in the bubbles, spelling my name and school until I reach the question, “Please identify your race.” I can only pick one. I fill in the bubble next to “American Indian/Alaska Native.”

In my college apartment, we don’t take down Christmas until February. I buy as many clearance peppermint candy canes as I can find. I crush them to top the cookies I made for the apartment next door. My new boyfriend (now husband) is over and he laughs. I ask what is funny. “I don’t know if this is something I should say, especially being White, but you could say you are a candy cane.” I laughed harder than him this time.

I will NOT be an Apple.

I am a Candy Cane.

It’s 2020, and there are battles raging on the internet. There always have been and will be, but this year is different. BLACK LIVES MATTER signs, flags, and fist silhouette posters are all over, online and in person. Almost as frequently, blue-line flags and American flags show who is an “all lives matter, so shut up” kind of person.

“IF YOU SAY ALL LIVES MATTER,” I want to scream at the latter group, “SAYING ‘BLACK LIVES MATTER’ SHOULD NOT BE A PROBLEM FOR YOU!” They simply don’t understand that while all lives matter, not all lives are equal or safe. These red and blue flag cowards are not as visible in person, but they scream loudest when they’re safe behind a screen persona.

My own screen persona blows rainbow kisses and happily puts up a fist silhouette. But I splatter my feed with something else too: red hands—for the murdered and missing Indigenous women, girls, and two-spirits (MMIW) that leave a gap in my people. The injustices done to our women on Native land by the Whites must be stopped. But it is currently impossible, as sovereignty is not fully granted to our tribes. They cannot convict non-Natives for crimes committed on Native land, so the Whites use it as a playground to rape our women and children. This must stop. Our women and children are humans.

I’ve had to learn what an “apple” is and unlearn the idea that I am one, because even before I knew my aunt said that, my friend essentially said the same thing in high school: “[Thea has the] Brownest skin but Whitest of personalities.” I’ve never known what it is like to be one thing at a time. I’ve always felt twisted up inside, and it felt more right than I could explain as a kid to call myself a twist. It was freeing to decide I had something new that was equally twisted but more unique to me when I realized I could call myself a candy cane. After all, I don't even like apples, and my only-half-white stomach is lactose intolerant. But I love peppermint candy canes, and, just like me, they aren’t just one color—they are white and red. I have had to learn how to reconcile my White and my Red. Colonizer and colonized. I’ve found it is hard, but can be made simple if I remember the only one-thing I am:

I am human.