One time we were distinguished by the colour of our skin. No matter how high is your education, no matter how beautiful you are, no matter how rich you are, you still be black. You cannot change their opinion; we want only to get respect as every race want too. And it is not too late to change their opinion, but to me respect should be imposed.
My name is Omar. I am black with round brown eyes and thick curly hair. I am only describing my face, but when it comes to my body I would perhaps say that I have dead legs. I am handicap. Whatever you think of me, Omar is black handicap.
From the day I had opened my eyes I found myself in an orphanage full of white whales and I was the only black. My life was not easy, and was hard to be sustained; the children at the orphanage neglected me all time. At first, I thought because of my disability, but then they start saying bad words about my skin and about blacks. I did not understand why they are saying this, but there was more for me to know later. Mrs Dabline was the only person who treated me well. She was trying to protect me from harm. An old lady, who was the owner of the orphanage, was so soft and sweet in her way of treating children. All of them love her very much including me with an extra proportion. Mrs Dabline was a good, honest person; where she goes, she blows peace in every place she enters or sees. She was as mother, and sometimes called me –Sam-her only dear son who was also physically and mentally handicapped, therefore he could not survive, and because of that she felt that I resemble him. Two dear persons died her husband and her child-and that is why she made her house an orphanage to homeless, parentless and disabled children, and as I can add blacks also. When I speak about Mrs Dabline as a teacher is something, but as a mother is something else. Her tenderness that surrounds me makes me forget the pain. I became capable to read perfectly. She gave me many books to read and taught me how to write, because she tried to make of me a person whom all people should respect. Writing and reading had diverted me from being alone all time. I felt that I knew this outstanding world and what it hid. When I reached eight years, all children, in the orphanage, went to the elementary school-that was paid by the state- except me. I was left alone.
On morning, Mrs Dabline entered my room, then asked “what are you doing, Omar?”
“Am…I am reading this book,‟ I displayed it to her ‘John Lock’s theories’, Mrs Dabline,” I replied.