Glimpsing “Whiteness” in a Box of Crayons

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“Whiteness” in a Box of Crayons

Due to white privilege and a convoluted racial history in the United States, the average white American does not recognize their color in a way that few black people can be unaware of their race.*

When I was a child, I enjoyed colouring books. Much to my more visually artistic younger sister’s disapproval, I enjoyed staying in the lines and sticking to what I perceived as realistic or proper colours for things, i.e. skies were blue (sky blue, if i had it), grass was green, and tree trunks were brown, etc. To help me lay my hands on the right colour, I put my crayons back in their box in an organized fashion. My own children do not share this need for crayon organization nor my love of colouring books. Using blank sheets of paper, my eldest son rarely even cares about the…

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From Giraffe Stalls to Pokéstops: The London Art Gallery

From ages 3 to 11, I lived in a green and white house at the corner of Wharncliffe and Charles. My house is soon to be torn down. So, I’ll need to snap a photo before it’s gone for good. Back in the day, this location would be considered walking distance to the Thames River and Downtown. I’m not sure what the average Londoner now considers walking distance but I am going to assume that it still lies somewhere between what a Vancouverite considers walking distance and what a Texan considers walking distance.

Anyway, in the early 80s, on one of these walks Downtown, we saw that something was being built on the east side of the Thames beside the Old Courthouse which in those days was covered in ivy adding to its hoary ethos. The climbing ivy and knowing that people had been hanged there gave the courthouse an air of mystery like something out of a fantasy story. I remember when they stripped the courthouse. I could almost feel its shame at being so exposed. No, the courthouse is best dressed in ivy.