"God is black!" How well I still recall that strange and exotic exclamation echoing around the decorated walls of the school gymnasium during the performance of my first nativity play.
I had been cast in a starring role as the third King of Orient: "And I present you with this jar of myrrh" I screeched in a creaking, pre-pubescent voice, struggling in my polyester robes to deposit the gift beside the Christ child's balsa wood crib, spitting out strands of huge itchy fake beard, my over-sized faux turban continually slipping over my eyes, while also trying very hard not to drop my heavy wooden prop on the Madonna's foot.
"God is black!"
At that moment, so uncomfortable and self-conscious did I feel that I would have happily prayed to a purple God with green spots if he could have rescued me away from that kindergarten theater Hell.
The racial demonstrator, incidentally, was an elder step-brother of the boy playing Joseph.
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