"UNBELIEVABLE!" yells the email. "New 42 cent stamp celebrates Muslim holiday." It proceeds to list all the atrocities this stamp should bring to mind. "Remember the Muslim bombings of Pan Am Flight 103!" it demands. "Remember the Muslim bombing of the World Trade Center! Remember the Muslim bombing of the American Embassies in Africa! Remember all the American lives that were lost in those vicious Muslim attacks!" After much capitalization and bolded text sure to inspire anyone in receipt of the email, all are instructed to loudly declare on their next visit to the post office, "No thank you, I do not want that Muslim Stamp on my letters!" I'm distracted by the absurdity of attributing blame for terrorist attacks on all Muslims. My defenses are down and a memory surfaces.

I was 18 years old before I ever met anyone from the Middle East. I moved to Brussels to work as a nanny for an aristocratic Belgian family. The mother was a baroness, and unabashed by her blatant prejudices. The Flemish were not to be trusted. The Moroccans were third class citizens. They'd been imported to do menial tasks and if they knew what was good for them, they wouldn't try to rise higher.

His name was Omar. He was standing inside a barber shop when I walked by, and he came out and greeted me. We walked around the city that afternoon. He taught me how to say "Marhaba" and "Shokran". I was curious, and interested, and enjoyed the thrill of rebelling against my Belgian family merely by speaking to him. This was 1996. Long before the general opinion dictated fear as the normal response when a few of his friends picked us up in a tiny little beat-up Citroen. They were older than him ? 3 dark-haired boys that I should probably call men, as they were at least 22 or 23. They didn't speak English nearly as well as he did, and the fluid Arabic I heard for the next few minutes was incomprehensible to me.

You may be imagining what happens next in the story. Some things are so predictable these days. A young, blonde American girl gets in a dented little white car with four dark-haired, dark-skinned Middle Eastern boys. All the movies you've seen highlighting terrorist attacks and kidnappings ? this surely won't turn out well. But this story doesn't end the way you might expect. They were headed to a family dinner and asked where I'd like to be dropped off. I got out at the nearest metro stop and they went on their way.

Growing up, my family was what some might call "color blind". Everyone is equal, regardless of their skin color. We don't notice, because it doesn't matter. We're all equal, who cares what color we are? But it's taboo to mention it. A child is shushed if she asks why another child's skin is darker than hers. If we notice, then we're racist. Taking the metro home that night, I tried to think of anyone else I was close to whose skin was not the same color as mine and I could think of none. This boy was the first. The first non-white person I had ever really talked to, ever considered a friend if only for a few hours, and I was 18. I felt the layers in my mind peeling away as the train came to a sudden, shocking halt. I didn't have any friends that didn't look like me because I wasn't comfortable around anyone else. I wasn't comfortable around anyone else, because I did notice their skin color and this could only mean I was racist.

Though I accepted this knowledge about myself, I didn't want anyone else to know. And so I hid it away. I replaced the layers and buried the unwelcome self-discovery. It was easy enough to do once I moved back home to the States. To the west, where I could hide among others who looked just like me. Where you never have to speak to someone who doesn't look like you if you don't want to. And I'm still there. I have a blog. I don't read the news too much and I don't go to "those" parts of town, or Walmart. I don't think about the past. If a shadow rises for a moment, peeking through the layers, I quickly set up a GNO (girl's night out), head out to get froyo (frozen yogurt) and by the end of the night I've forgotten. I close my laptop and pick up the phone.


About the Author
Aubrey Carter recently completed the NYC Teaching Fellows program where she taught 10th grade French and ESL (English as a Second Language) in the Bronx. She moved from NYC to Scottsdale, Arizona this summer with her husband and two daughters. She now writes for Examiner.com and spends as much time as possible with her two little girls.