It looks like the red carpet has been rolled out for some time, the furniture is imitation leather and a bass thuds from a pool party outside the bay windows. The breeze blows the curtains, bating us outdoors like a matador, but its gust smells of burning plastic and the pool is filled with white adults taking pictures of black babies. “Nescafé is what we have”, while behind her a muted television shows paraplegic bench-pressing. Migrant birds from Europe perch along the bar stools, sleeping with eyes open or staring deeply at the horizon. I’m a white thumb among black consciousness. I’m sticking out, waiting and self-conscious. This blackness is dressed up in whiteness, the colors of the context confusing its character development. It’s the Coca-cola, it’s sugar cane candy and when I eat candy I become innocent: innocent colors of consciousness. I’m a white thumb in a black story, the very human story of have’s and have-not’s, of power, of greed and the creativity that courageously comes to burn the pages of the past. The sense of the place comes from two stories taught throughout white education, my brain scrubbed until bleeding, and now the scab is coming off. The first story runs with whiteness oppressing blackness, forcing it to be whiter, and the second runs with blackness accepting its whiteness to gain power, thus annihilating the idea of blackness. A mantra of “we’re all the same” rings in my ears as the colors of consciousness disappear into a vacuum: I’m me and you’re you and we’re us. The Sun sets and its white light comes through the bay windows and reflects off the bar. The colors of visible light stretch into space, color, a product of light. You need the light to see the pages of a story: to see clearly the context, the nature of its characters and how to move the plot forward.