As a young girl, I was fascinated by the Watusi. We had a Watusi come to our Talent Elementary School and we had an assembly to mark the occasion. I was immediately captured; I had never seen a person of any color, short of white or light brown, up close that is. This man was very black and I couldn’t have been whiter next to him. He was shrouded in beautiful white-gauzy linen and carried a feathered quirt of black and golden feathers, which his people used to keep flies away from them in his homeland of East Africa. He also wore a crown–a big and bright yellow and cream-colored-feathery crown–which seemed so regal I could feel it in my heart, before I even knew what regal meant. I had never seen a crown on a man before, short of the Cowardly Lion, and the Emperor, when marching through town donning his new clothes; and of course, Jesus. I stuck to him like glue, his differences were handsome and I could feel those electrifying differences of our backgrounds, like a Morse code being tapped within my being: they seemed to secretly and silently bond us.
My second grade teacher asked me to step away from him, and as my little-seven- year-old heart sank, he swiftly brushed the top of my head, and paused to tell me how me how beautiful I was and asked me to please stay near him so he could absorb and admire my light. “Admire my light?” I had never heard of such an expression. I was curious; dizzied, my mind racing, propelled by the joy to hear someone say—as easy as the sky is blue–I have a light. I looked at him closely, because my first thought was why me? Why little old me?? I had no crown; no quirt; nothing regal. I only had a pair of blue jeaned clam-diggers and a pixie cut with bangs, which looked like the road, my Great Uncle would walk, when he had had too much to drink: crooked: chopped up; and swerving unapologetically into my pony tail. I looked to Mrs. Mearns for permission–I remember her dark eyes smiling and her firm nod giving me permission to continue to stand by him. I shivered and stood proudly, as I watched him speak with a sparkle in his eyes: His smile, brilliant and bright, just seemed to light up the sky.
The Watusi are considered the Giants of Africa, they are a very tall people and so when I looked up to his inviting face, it was as if God himself was smiling down on me. I remember getting lost in his flowing-white robe and feeling a warm rush of love for him. He had a deep rumbling voice, and though it felt like a gentle bubbling brook–his voice was that of a King. He was my Wizard of Color, a heart rich, and there to share with small town rural America his culture; a culture so far removed from Talent Oregon, he could have been from Jupiter.
It was the first time I actually remember thinking those thoughts I’ve often spoke of: the wondrous realization that we ARE all connected. We may not speak the same language; we may look as if we are visitors from different planets; but we all share in the human conditions–which we embrace and eschew–and we are certainly made of the same stardust which lights up our nights like magic. I didn’t realize at that time the depth of this thought; but I do remember the thought made me smile.
I wish I could remember his name today, but I can’t. Still, he is a man I will never forget. In a matter of 3 short hours, a swirl and twirl through the maze of a man’s white robe; a smile and a feathered crown worn as if it was a regular old baseball cap: a man of grace and in this specific story you are reading–a Watusi–opened a door and let a little more of this beautiful world into Talent, Oregon. As simple minded as that sounds; it was a defining moment in the life of Robin Clark.