I grew up a zebra in a community of horses. My mother protected me while giving me freedom to grow. I raced with other fillies and mares, colts and stallions, sped down a favorite hill until my legs hurt and my mane, soaked with sweat and dust, clumped in thick strings. I wandered in and out of the herd, but when Mother sensed peril, she pushed me to the periphery and insinuated herself between me and the threat she saw that I did not. I loved to splash in water. As I grew up and emulated the restrained demeanor of Mother, I approached the water, resisted the urge to prance and snort and play and saw my reflection in the pristine surface for the first time. I didn’t look at all like my Mother. Her coat did not bear the stark stripes of black and white I saw snaking down my neck and around my body. She seemed encased in clots of mud brown. I asked her about this. “It is how I survive.” She showed me how to dip in the pond and roll in the dirt to cover my stripes. After my initial fear, I learned to love deep water. It lifted me and gave me a feeling of lightness I never felt on land. I learned to keep my muzzle angled to get enough air and see where I was going. The water slid over my body and teased places I didn’t know existed.
I did as Mother said and writhed in the dirt. Scratching my back in the dust and pebbles and dried grass felt good. I stood up and moseyed through the group. No one recognized me. I didn’t know which was worse: to be a stranger or to be the familiar who was different. With my stripes, I felt confident and secure. I knew who I was and where I was going and accepted my uniqueness. The others in the herd would learn. When the storm clouds gathered and unleashed a cataract of rain, I danced in the mud, raised my muzzle to the sky, and shook my head until black and white stripes peeked through the rivulets of muddy water. This is who I am. I am proud.
We are born layered with difference, not by choice, but by nature, for all to embrace. That is the beauty of the natural world.
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