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Dear white fella when i am born i’m black when i grow up i’m black when i am sick i’m black when i go out ina sun i’m black when i git cold i’m black when i git scared i’m black and when i die i’m still black. but you white fella when you’re born you’re pink when you grow up you’re white when you git sick you’re green when you go out ina sun you go red when you git cold you go blue when you git scared you’re yellow and when you die you’re grey and you got the cheek to call me coloured?
-Steven Pinker
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Dear White Fella When I Am Born

Steven Pinker
Dear white fella when i am born i’m black when i grow up i’m black when i am sick i’m black when i go out ina sun i’m black when i git cold i’m black when i git scared i’m black and when i die i’m still black. but you white fella when you’re born you’re pink when you grow up you’re white when you git sick you’re green when you go out ina sun you go red when you git cold you go blue when you git scared you’re yellow and when you die you’re grey and you got the cheek to call me coloured?
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Growing Up Yellow White

More From Steven Pinker

When i'm born i'm black, when i grow up i'm black, when i'm in the sun i'm black, when i'm sick i'm black, when i die i'm black, and you...when you're born you're pink, when you grow up you're white, when you're cold you're blue, when you're sick you're green, when you die you're grey and you dare call me coloured.
Growing Up Blue White
Bastian had climbed a dune of purplish-red sand and all around him he saw nothing but hill after hill of every imaginable color. each hill revealed a shade or tint that occured in no other. the nearest was cobalt blue, another was saffron yellow, then came crimson red, then indigo, apple green, sky blue, orange, peach, mauve, turquoise blue, lilac, moss green, ruby red, burnt umber, indian yellow, vermillion, lapis lazuli, and so on from horizon to horizon. and between the hill, separating color from color, flowed streams of gold and silver sand.
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At present i absolutely want to paint a starry sky. it often seems to me that night is still more richly coloured than the day; having hues of the most intense violets, blues and greens. if only you pay attention to it you will see that certain stars are lemon-yellow, others pink or a green, blue and forget-me-not brilliance. and without my expatiating on this theme it is obvious that putting little white dots on the blue-black is not enough to paint a starry sky.
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The fields are snowbound no longer; there are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green. the snow has been caught up into the sky- so many white clouds-and the blue of the sky is cold. now the sun walks in the forest, he touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers; they shiver, and wake from slumber. over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls. yet is the forest full of the sound of tears.... a wind dances over the fields. shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter, yet the little blue lakes tremble and the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
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To me, grey is the welcome and only possible equivalent for indifference, noncommitment, absence of opinion, absence of shape. but grey, like formlessness and the rest, can be real only as an idea, and so all i can do is create a colour nuance that means grey but is not it. the painting is then a mixture of grey as a fiction and grey as a visible, designated area of colour.
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