M is for Marigold

I have joined the group  "Blogging from A to Z" .  This is a  a month long challenge to write a short story everyday and each day corresponding to the letter of the alphabet.  I have linked up the site - simply click on the name so that you might read any sort of short story from the huge line-up available.  The stories are supposed to be short so that many can be read, quickly.  Simply a titillation of talent.  Happy reading, and thank you for joining me.  My sister-in-law is writing under "Vicki's Place" currently her placement is #1259.  If you are catching this on my Facebook or as an e-mail follower my number is currently #1324.  (people drop out and the numbers contract) 

M is for Marigold

“Marigold!”  We called out to her.  It wasn't her given name.  Marigold was the name we dubbed her upon our first meeting with her.

I had heard the stories.  I knew there were people who didn't look like “us” who lived among us.  I knew they tried very hard to fit in, just as we all do.  Trying to be like everyone else is exhausting!

She had her back to me, I could see the unusual bright yellow of her hair.  Sunshine bright.  A little difficult to look at.  It seemed to shimmer and radiate by itself. 

Her family had just moved to our neighborhood.  The moving van pulled up, the workers began to unload furniture, so we proceeded to watch.  Like a flock of birds on the telephone wires, we lined the opposite street curb spying to see if there were any kids. 

My friends and I had converged on our kitchen.  It was Mom’s fault.  The smell of freshly made chocolate chip cookies wafted on the air.  We were like cartoon characters, floating toward the aroma.   I plunked a second one in a pocket, rationalizing that if there were a new kid on the block they would want a cookie too.  If there weren't a new kid on the block, all the better for me!

We sat on the curb, watching and waiting.  When the suv finally pulled up to the house we collectively, audibly held our breath.  Excitement rippled through us like the “wave” at a sporting event. When she finally jumped out of the back seat, we nearly shouted with joy.  A new kid!  New ideas!  New friends!  New adventures!

Then she turned around.  We had been looking at a shawl that had been covering her head and shoulders.  She actually had jet black hair and the oddest blue eyes I had ever seen.  I just knew there were stories behind those blue eyes.  I just knew we were going to be good friends.  I knew I would protect her with my life, if need be. 

As it turned out, her family had just moved to not only our neighborhood but to our country.  She told us her name, we couldn’t begin to pronounce it.  Laughing, Jenny said we should call her Marigold for the yellow shawl she had on.  Bobbing our heads the rest of us agreed and the name stuck.  Handing over the extra cookie I had sealed our friendship.

We found out later, the family had to move from their country because of Marigold.  Her eyes.  There were people who thought her eyes were magical and sought to kill her for them.  To eat them.  

Because there are so few people with her type of eyes, their demise isn’t well documented.  People with albinism,  on the other hand, were literally chased down for their inherent “magic”.  Sadly, albinism cannot be hidden by dark sunglasses.

  Click HERE to watch a short clip

Africa ... albino child

Welcome to Albino Island

DAVID LOWE

Last Updated: 11th December 2008

32

WITH their milky white skin, wispy hair and haunting, pale eyes, they are called “the living ghosts” by locals.

And the vulnerable albinos of Tanzania in East Africa have more than insults to fear.

They are being hunted down and hacked to death to satisfy a growing demand for their body parts and blood to use in black magic.

Read more: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/woman/real_life/2017493/Albinos-in-Africa-find-a-haven-from-being-hunted-for-body-parts.html#ixzz2QQq8CQP4

leigh