In the article How It feels to Be Colored Me, Zora Hurston describes her experiences being colored. She lived in a prominently colored town in Florida up until she was thirteen and she lived a great life. Everyone knew her; she was “their” Zora. Then, her mother passed away and Hurston was shipped off to boarding school. This, she said was the first time she became colored. Now, when I first read this article I wondered how she could remember being born. Then, I realized that what she really meant was that when she left home, she was no longer Zora. To everyone she was just a little black girl.
Hurston could clearly discern the difference between black and white and she knows that she herself is black. However, what she doesn’t understand is how people can just see color. When she looks at herself she sees Zora, not a little black girl. That’s honestly where I can relate with her. When I think of people I don’t see a color. No, I see a person, a girl, a boy, a teacher, a partier, a student, a soccer player, a musician. I see the person in the inside. I think that is what Hurston was talking about. Everyone is different but when you pour everything out, essentially we all are the same. The whole point that Hurston is trying to get across to readers is that while yes, she is black, her color is NOT who she is. She said it herself, “It merely astonishes me. How can anyone deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.” She is Zora Hurston. Just as I am Ashton Foster. Color does not define who we are; we are only what we perceive ourselves to be.