We're Livin' in a Melting Pot--So Stir It Up, Baby.

I watch her from my bed as she carries on playful conversation through her cell phone. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek bun. Both her eyelids, trimmed in electric blue, and her posture exude confidence, boldness. Her Northern accent booms inside the four walls of my room.

"Quit lunchin," she says to the person on the other end of the line.

The phone conversation ends only so another can begin. The second states its presence as the phone blares a funky, reggae tone.

My roommate, who sits with me, catches my gaze--giving me a curious look. I watch her eyes travel from my sister Kaitlyn's black tennis shoes, up past tight jeans toward the excessive gold jewelry that shimmy down and around my sister's neck and arms. Hearing the sound of the phone, my roommate brings her mouth close to my ear.

"Lia, your sister is so ghetto," she whispers.

Thuggy-Bear. Wigger. Yo. It varies depending on the speaker. I've heard these words, these labels, placed on my sister ever since elementary school. It's rare that I introduce her to someone new without hearing one of them slide into their response. Why does she talk like that? She lives in Brooklyn? She dates black guys? Does she hate white people? All she listens to is reggae and rap? How in the hell are the two of you related?

We grew up in a big family. With eight children, a sense of normalcy or plainness just didn't have a place. From a young age, our parents instilled in us the belief that our differences are what set us apart, make us great. Ashley likes the color red and runs cross country. Whitney likes to paint and take ballet classes. Cullan prefers football over soccer and plays video games whenever he gets the chance. As I hear others' judgments and criticisms of my sister's appearance and life-style, I wish the lesson I learned as a toddler could become a trademark of today's society.

We have been groomed to fear change, to pay close attention to people and ideas that are different, that stand out. Just because I wear my hair a certain way or prefer one genre of music over the other doesn't mean I am rejecting my ethnic heritage. Or that I want to have my skin dyed. Or that I'm carrying a gun in my purse. Or that I resent being white. Cultural differences, in all of their varying, breathtaking colors, were once used as a positive slogan of this "melting-pot" country. Perhaps it, too, was just a scam. Cheap propaganda to boost a young, green economy. But something deep inside me hopes this is not true.

I itch with anticipation that our generation has the power to jump-start what appears to be a looming revolution. One where we embrace the things that make your skin darker or lighter or more freckly or far more likely to get sunburned than mine. Where the taste of Zimbabwean cuisine has a place right next to spaghetti and meatballs.

I sense a mirrored desire in my sister's quiet desperation. She sees the way certain people look at her, but smiles despite their ignorance. While others may refuse, she makes a difference each day. Her life is one that reflects open-mindedness and love. She remains hopeful and I can see it in her eyes as she takes another long drag from a slender, white cigarette.