Like a true Westerner, I am preoccupied during the summer months in getting this pale skin just a shade or two darker. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those cancer-seeking freaks who shell out my hard-earned dollars to sit under a lamp and cook myself. But I do love to hear from my friends, “Hey, nice tan!”

In the States, we pay money to get darker but in Asia they pay money to get lighter. Finding moisturizing lotion that did not have whitening cream added to it was next to impossible and the sunscreen spray had the highest SPF I’d ever seen. This was not for me. In longer and longer timed increments, I subjected my unprotected skin to the tropical sun. By the time the dry season was in its full blazing glory, my skin boasted in its want-to-be-olive complexion; not that hideous Redneck orange us white folk are too often known for.

My sweet tutor protested so much that I still have her comment ringing in my ears – “Why do you like dark skin? It’s no good. You don’t want to look like Kalah, do you?”

My Chin, Karen, Shan and Burmese friends all called them Kalah. Officially Burma recognizes this group as Rohingya. Many come from ancestors that arrived to Burma’s shores over a thousand years ago. Their blood is often a mix of Arab, Indian and Bengal peoples. But their skin tone is not the only strike against them in this staunchly Buddhist country. Most of them are Muslim. They are not given citizenship in Burma and are blatantly persecuted. If Burma had a caste system, the Kalah would be the untouchables.

One day my tutor and I were walking through the open market. The rain clouds had fled in a hurry leaving nothing but eye-straining sunshine to mingle with the bright colors of cheap Chinese toys and flip-flops. The rotten smelling fish paste greeted my nose. Inadvertently, my face crinkled in disgust. There has to be something redeeming about this place. And then I saw him. My eyes lit up and I tugged on her sleeve with little girl joy. “Sayama (teacher), look! He’s beautiful!”

You’d think I had just committed an unpardonable sin. “What? But he’s Kalah!” She couldn’t understand why or how I could see God’s artistry on such a dark face. To her, he represented a hated race of people. She could not see him for the unique individual that he was. Kalah are stereotyped as loud, cheats, dirty, and devious. I met plenty that were such folks. But I have met many of my own people who can easily fall into this category as well.

Nine months later we were to walk through the same market. She pulled at my hand and nodded in the direction of the bookseller I often went to for my Burmese dictionaries and CD’s. She smiled and, practicing the slang English I had taught her, she asked, “Is he hot?” My laugh echoed against the blue tarp awning as the young Kalah man grinned his hello. “Yes, Sayama, he’s beautiful!”

Perspective is amazing. It is what holds us captive or what sets us free. What man hates, God finds a reason to love. I want to do the same. For without the contrast of light and dark, the vision would be flat and lifeless. Thank God my eyes have seen so many shades of Burma. They are all so beautiful!

Thanks again to Angie for contributing! We love your stories!