All the Colors of the Rainbow, by Stormfreak
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, and have made no
money from this story. This is alternate universe.
"So how is Ro?"
"She's…okay. She's taking it hard, but she'll be all right. You know
Ororo - she's a fighter."
"I just can't believe anyone would such a thing, Logan. It's so
cruel, and so uncalled for. I feel so awful for her."
"Jean, don't go feelin' bad for my Ro. I told you - she's a fighter.
She'll be fine. Between you an' Scott, an' me an' Bri, she'll be fine."
Pause. "And you? How are you taking this, Logan?"
"I don't like anything that makes my wife upset, but…it all comes
with the business you know? You can't please everyone."
"I know but…I just don't see how anyone can be that vicious, you
know? This is the 21st century. How anyone can have that kind of archaic
thinking in this day and age, I just don't know…"
"I better go, Jeannie. This phone call is costin' me a ton, ya know
that."
"I know. I'll come visit when I can."
"Bye, Jean."
"Goodbye, Logan."
Five-time karate world champion James "Wolverine" Logan hung up the
phone and sank into his favorite chair. For the longest time, he sat
silently, digesting the events of the past few hours. He allowed his eyes
to wander, soaking up his surroundings in the high-rise Manhattan
apartment. Most people would suspect that the home of a martial arts
champion and a world famous supermodel would be full of trophies and
blown-up photographs, but it wasn't. Rather, it was tastefully decorated
with expensive art and statues, beautiful plants and small, framed 8x10's
of Ororo's most famous cover shoots. A large scroll entitled "The Creed
of the Karate Champion" was written entirely in Chinese and was placed
over the fireplace. The only real signs of life around the house were all
the pictures of their four-year-old daughter, Brianna.
Logan lit a cigar and stared at a worn-out, tattered magazine. A few
months ago, Ororo had agreed to do a cover shoot with Onyx, the most
prominent African-American magazine in the United States. Onyx had chosen
an untraditional approach, though; rather than the usual
strolling-through-Paris bit, they came to Ororo and Logan's home. Ororo,
Logan, and little Brianna were all featured in the article, entitled:
"Black America's Sexiest New Supermodel and Family." Onyx took some
fantastic pictures, but Logan's favorite one was the one he wasn't in.
Ororo and Bri had been in the kitchen, laughing and baking cookies
(strictly for show; Ororo wasn't a baker), and both of them had flour on
their faces. They were laughing and their foreheads were touching; a pair
of blue eyes gazing into a pair of gray.
The cover came out last month, with the whole family on the cover
(much to Logan's embarrassment. How can a world champion look tough with
a giggling four-year-old on his lap?) Onyx had done a wonderful job
covering both Ororo and Logan, heralding their marriage as a shining
example of how a working couple with children could make a marriage work.
The pictures were nice, the feature article long, and their house had
been filled with phone calls and letters of congratulations. That had
been last month. Logan picked up the latest month of Onyx magazine. It
flipped to page 41 without him touching it. He didn't know why he
bothered to read it - he had the entire column memorized, but he read it
anyway.
Dear Ladies of Onyx,
Well, white America has done it again. They've gone and thrown us a
bone, and we've jumped on it like starving alley dogs. I knew this would
happen, but I didn't think it would get this big. Worse, I didn't think
the readers of Onyx would fall prey to such garbage.
The latest token in white America is now Ororo Logan, the hot new
supermodel nicknamed "Storm," supposedly for her killer walk on the
runway and the way she took the world. In a country of beautiful black
women of all shades and sizes, this ONE African-American woman from
Harlem is supposed to represent ALL of us. Sisters, I don't know how many
white-haired, blue-eyed women able to wear a size zero that you know,
other than Lil Kim. And I don't want her representing me either.
To make matters worse, Onyx decided to put this woman in their
magazine, doing a spread on her life. Nothing made me want to upchuck my
breakfast more than opening my monthly mag and seeing this Uncle Tom,
grinning her big watermelon smile alongside her white husband and
half-Caucasian daughter. Even her best friend is Caucasian, and her white
behind was in three of the pictures.
Mrs. Logan, if you're so on-the-ball, are you trying to tell me that
you couldn't find a brother with all these credentials that your husband
has? Or did you just want a light-eyed, straight-haired, bright-skinned
daughter pretty enough to be accepted by white society? Should she marry
a white man and acclimate herself into white society, denying her black
roots, like you did? Maybe Mr. Logan was looking for a hot piece of
exotic black tail. I hear it's in nowadays, to have a "colored" girl on
your arm. It looks to me like Mrs. Logan was more than willing to oblige.
Point blank: This woman is a token Negro, having shown up to no
functions geared toward African-Americans, nor has she contributed any
money to the NAACP, the United Negro College Fund, or anything of the
sort. I know that we as a people, should not tear down our own, but when
we build up a person who is not worthy of being built up, it angers me.
She has done nothing to uplift the African-American race. Hell, with her
lily-white husband, lily-white daughter and lily-white life style, I
don't think she knows she's black.
Paulette Hughes,
Guest Columnist
*
Ororo sat down at the kitchen table, dressed only in a thick white
robe and matching slippers. Her sensational silver locks were piled high
on her head, damp from being washed. She sighed, placing her forehead on
the counter, holding back tears.
This woman is a token Negro…The words had cut through her like
a knife. She had been so stunned that she dropped the magazine. A token
Negro? How in the world could anyone had some to that conclusion, solely
because her husband was white? Furthermore, what the hell was a token
Negro in this day and age? Didn't "acting black" or "talking white" go
out in the eighties?
"Hey, love," a voice called from above. Ororo felt pressure on her
neck and smiled. She knew it was her husband, Logan. "I'm going to the
school. I have a 4:30 session with the yellow belts." When Logan won his
fifth title, he retired, wanting to go out on the top of his game. Since
then, he ran a karate school, one of the most successful in the entire
United States.
"All right." Ororo lifted her head and kissed her husband, who
noticed her red, swollen eyes immediately.
"Ro-"
"I'm fine, Logan." Ororo immediately responded. "Really."
"Ro, it was just one opinion, from one stupid columnist-"
"Logan, I said I was fine."
"Then why do you look so angry?"
Ororo rubbed her head; she felt a headache coming on. "Logan…I wasn't
big on becoming a supermodel in the first place. But I was encouraged to
do it. 'There aren't enough black supermodels.' That's what I was told.
'Do it for the people. Do it for Harlem.'" She sighed. "And this is the
thanks I get, for all the hard work, for all the lonely nights away from
you and Bri? A blasting from some fat, single journalist with a bad weave
job?" She began to rock back and forth, the way she always did when she
was nervous. "Is this what they all think of me - the black women of
America? That I'm some white man's whore?"
"Hell, no!" Logan exclaimed. He pulled out the chair next to his wife
and sat down. "You wouldn't be this successful if that were true. You
wouldn't have so many fans is any of that garbage were true. You wouldn't
have so many women - of all races - writing you. All this race talk -
it's bullshit, Ro. That's all it is."
"That's easy for you to say, Logan. You have no pressure on you. No
one tell you that you are not white enough. No one calls you names."
"Oh, really!?" Logan retorted angrily. "Getting letters calling me a
'nigger lover' doesn't constitute as name-calling? Calling our child a
'high-yellow bastard' isn't supposed to hurt me, Ro, or when some idiot
refers to you as a piece of exotic black tail?"
"You know what I mean. It's just that I'm black -"
"You are?" Logan jumped up, pretending to be shocked. "And all this
time I thought I was having sex with Catherine Zeta-Jones!"
"Logan-"
"I can't believe you're black! You lied to me! I want a divorce!"
"Logan!" A small smile crept across Ororo's face. "You know what I'm
trying to say."
"No, Ro. I don't." Logan placed his head in his head and began to rub
his forehead. "Look, babe. We've had this discussion. We had it when we
were dating. Before we got married. After we got married. Before Bri was
born. After she was born. Before she went to school. Personally, I'm sick
of talking about it. You knew I was white when I married you. It's not
like I sprang it on you or anything, so why are you tripping on it five
years later?" He folded his arms. "Two things cannot change, Ro: One, I'm
white and you're black, and two, I love you. I love you so much, it's
crazy. But when things like this get you upset and we have these 'race
talks,' it irritates me. You knew when was the last time it dawned on me
that I had a black wife?"
"When?"
"The last time you reminded me."
Ororo nodded. "I worry sometimes, Logan."
"I know you do."
"There is this myth that successful blacks marry whites as trophies;
to be accepted into the white culture…that's not why I married you
Logan."
"You married me because you were pregnant."
"Something like that." Ororo smiled and shook her head. "I married
you because I love you, Logan. I wish…I hope, rather, that people know
that. That they don't feed into that garbage that Ms. Hughes wrote,
because none of it is true." She buried her head into her hands. "God, I
hope they know that it's not true…"
"I think they know, Ro," Logan soothed, rubbing her shoulders. "Most
of the world isn't into that kind of ass-backward thinking." Logan kissed
his wife's cheek. She tilted her head backward, allowing her lips to meet
his. As their kiss grew deeper and more urgent, the sound of a buzzer cut
into their conversation. "Mr. Logan?"
"Yes?"
"Your daughter is home," the family chauffeur replied.
"Okay," Logan walked to the front door and unlocked it. "Ro, dry your
eyes. Don't let Bri think something's wrong."
Ororo nodded mutely as the front door swung open and a tiny,
dark-haired child with creamy tanned skin ran inside. "I'm home!" a
high-pitched voice filled the room.
"Buttercup!" Logan called picking up his only child and swinging her
around in circles. "How was school?"
"Fine." The second Bri's feet touched the floor, she was off and
running. "Hi, Mommy!"
"Hello, Brianna." Ororo placed the petite youngster in her lap and
kissed her.
"Look, Mommy, I drew a picture today!"
"Oh, really?" Ororo took a folded piece of paper out of Brianna's
hand and opened it up. "Tell Daddy and me about it."
Brianna began to point. "This is you, and this is Daddy, and this is
me. This is the sun, and this is our house, and this is the fire hydrant…"
"I have to go." Logan stooped down and kissed his two favorite girls.
In his wife's ear, he whispered, "Everything's gonna be okay, all right?"
"I know," Ororo whispered back, and locked her sky-blue eyes with
his. "As long as I have you, it will be all right."
He smiled and left.
*
It was past Brianna's bedtime when Logan walked into the high-rise
Manhattan apartment. Feeling a pang that only father could feel, he crept
into her bedroom. Looking down into the small bed that held his precious
angel, his heart swelled with love. He didn't think he could love one
person this much, not since he had met the then-not-quite-famous Ororo
Munroe the night he won his first world championship match.
He had married Ororo within three months, four days after the day she
showed up on his doorstep in those oh-so-tight-and-tattered jeans and a
midriff and announced she was pregnant. His reaction had been simple: he
had cursed. Loudly. And she had left. Quickly. Four hours later, after
pacing in his apartment (alone), Logan was on his Harley. He traveled for
hours, riding from Chicago to New York just to stand on her doorstep and
ask a simple question: "What are you doing Saturday afternoon?"
"Why?" she had asked, none too kindly. She had wearing a New York
Knicks jersey, and nothing underneath.
"I was thinking'…uh…if you weren't doin' anything that day, that,
uh…we could, like, get married or something. Cuz you know, you're having
my kid an' all, and…" his voice trailed off.
"Do you have a ring?" she had questioned.
"A ring?"
"Yes, Logan, a ring! A little piece of gold with a stone on top,
preferably a diamond? Symbolizes love and whatnot? Usually means you're
serious about this marriage thing?"
Pause. "Uh…a ring?"
"Come back when you are serious about you and me." And she slammed the
door in his face.
So Logan bought a ring. The size was way off, and on their wedding
day, he had to slip it on her thumb. She wore a dress no fancier than one
would wear to church or to a party, and her hair was in a ponytail.
Still, she was the most stunning woman he'd ever seen. And on the night
Brianna Jasmine Logan was born, less than twelve hours after he won his
second title, Ororo was far more beautiful.
Logan grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and closed the door.
Ororo had hung Bri's picture on the door, and Logan realized that he
hadn't really been able to look at it. He could hear his daughter's voice
in his ear as he examined the piece of art.
"This is you, and this is Daddy, and this is me…"
Logan had to laugh. He had to. He couldn't help it. Because Mommy was
green, Daddy was blue, and Bri was purple. He sighed. Why can't the
world think like this?
"Logan?"
Logan looked up. His wife had appeared from the bedroom, placing
her in the dining room. A light pink negligee scantly covered her slim
body, and her hair, freshly washed, hung loosely around her shoulders and
down her back. "How was class today?"
"Fine." Logan couldn't take his eyes off his wife. "They're getting
better - a lot better. I mean, they can't kick my ass, but then again,
who can?"
Ororo laughed, and her eyes sparkled. "No one can," she murmured,
walking toward him. That killer walk that took the world by
"Storm," he thought, bemused. He knew The Walk before The Walk made
her famous; the one that made her hips sway and put a bounce in her
breasts that was barely noticeable. The Walk had made him weak in the
knees. The Walk had made Logan ride a Harley from Chicago to New York to
propose to marry this woman. Oh, yes, Logan was a victim of The Walk.
Ororo wrapped her arms around him, and she subtle scent of sandalwood
filled his nostrils. "That's why you're the five-time world champ." She
kissed him lightly. "Come to bed, champ. I've been waiting for you."
Logan began to follow his wife, but as he passed the dining room
table, something caught his eye. The magazine. That damned magazine.
"Uh…can you give me a couple of minutes, babe? I got something I need to
do real quick; then I'll get to you."
Ororo kissed him again, a deep kiss that made his head spin. "Don't
be long," she whispered, and sashayed off.
Logan shook his head quickly, took a deep breath, and picked up the
magazine. He headed toward the living room, where he stored his laptop.
Booting up his computer, he thought about what he was going to type.
Ms. Paulette Hughes was going to get a piece of James Logan's mind.
*
"Ro!"
"Jean! How are you?"
"I'm fine! Guess what? Scott and I are having a baby!"
"You're kidding!" Ororo cried and sat on the plush leather couch.
"Jean, that's wonderful!"
"I read you're leaving for Milan soon."
"In two weeks. It's a six-day shoot, plus a runway show. Hey, how
would you like to meet me out there? It's on me."
"Really? Me and you in Italy?"
"I think it would be fun. I'm going to be an auntie; I get to spoil
you now!"
"Okay. I'd better go. Scott threw a hissy fit when he saw the last
telephone bill. I'll call you."
"Bye!" Ororo laughed and picked up her mail on her coffee table. Fan
mail, bills, Brianna's tuition, and the latest edition of Onyx. Damn
it, I need to cancel our subscription…what's this? Readers in Defense
of Supermodel Storm. What in the hell…Ororo flipped to the table
of contents, then to the accommodating page.
Onyx: Paulette Hughes is a bad weave having bitch. Storm is
awesome. No one wants to see Paulette in a pair of low-slung jeans. The
moral of this letter? More Storm, less Paulette. - Jason Saunders,
Oakland, California
Hey Onyx, Paulette is straight hatin' on this beauty they call
Storm. Who cares about the color of the man she married? It's been five
years, so they must be happy. And James Logan is the greatest man who
ever did karate. God bless this family. - Mary Morgan (a die-hard
Wolverine fan), Portland, Oregon
< br>Dear Editors: What K-Mart did Paulette Hughes receive her
journalism degree? Just because no one would take Paulette as a
supermodel doesn't give her the right to dump on the most beautiful woman
alive. And as a black man, I am ashamed of Ms. Hughes slamming of our own
so free just for marrying the man she loved.
- Ron Taylor, Tampa,
Florida
Dear Editors of Onyx: As treasurer of the New York chapter of the
National Association of the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), I
would like to say a word in Mrs. Ororo Logan's defense. Mrs. Logan has
always given a more than generous donation to the New York chapter of the
NAACP annually. Just because she doesn't announce this every year does
not mean it does not get done. This is the true meaning on the word
"charity." - LaTiara Hudson, NAACP New York Chapter - Bronx, New York
Dear Onyx, Paulette Hughes is a fool. Ororo Logan is a wonderful
person and a shining role model for all women, not just black women. To
be against her just because her husband is white is just disgusting. True
love has no color. Maybe that's why Ms. Hughes is single - she's too busy
looking for a "brother" and passing up true love in the meantime. And for
the record, there's no need to call me out in your crappy columns, Miss
Hughes. You can reach my white behind in Milan, laughing it up on the
beach with my supermodel best friend. - Jean Grey-Summers, New York, New
York
And on and on it went. Ororo felt her entire body begin to tremble.
She remembered the words Logan had told her just a month ago:
"Everything's gonna be okay, all right?"
And she responded: "As long as I have you, it will be all right."
It sounded mundane then. It all made sense now. The world didn't
think like this Hughes woman. The letters were so long and so numerous,
they took up fifteen pages. Men, women, black, white, old and young had
all rallied in Ororo's defense, and she read every letter.
But the last one was so special, she cried.
Dear Ms. Hughes and readers of Onyx,
I am pretty sure my wife knows she's black. That's what it says on
her birth certificate. She was black the day she married me, and she was
black they day our daughter Brianna was born. And today, she is still
black. I know this personally, because I kissed every inch of her black
skin just this morning
This so-called theory of acclimating into a certain status or race is
ridiculous. Being a world famous supermodel or having a rich white
husband does not change the face that my wife is African-American. Having
money did not induct her into the "High and Whitey" Club. There have been
a number of times my wife and daughter have not been able to catch a
taxi, received rude customer service at a store, or been denied service
at a restaurant because Ms. Logan was not recognized. The amounts of hate
mail and threats to my wife's life have not been reduced because she
married me. I am, by no means, her "great white hope."
Furthermore, I resent Ms. Hughes' notion that I married my wife
because she was black, and therefore "exotic" to me. If Ms. Hughes can
find the exotic part of the south side of Harlem, please let me know
because that's where my wife is from. When my wife walked down the aisle
and I saw her in her white dress that matched her hair, believe me when I
say that her skin color was not on my mind. I married Ms. Logan because
she is my soul mate. Perhaps Ms. Hughes should expend a little more
energy in trying to find hers instead of dumping on mine.
I am sickened and outraged by the belief that my wife is not "black"
enough to represent black women across America. While I acknowledge that
Ms. DePalma isn't the darkest skinned woman out there, no one has exactly
mistaken her for Halle Berry lately. However, if Ms. DePalma were two
shades lighter than chalk, it would not change her ethnicity.
As for the accusation of my wife's charity donations, that is her
business, not the world's. And why it is mandatory for my wife to attend
some bourgeoisie charity event that cost $300 a ticket - to impress the
Black Elite? I haven't been pressed to attend the "Great Canadians
Banquet," but no one's writing columns about me. Another thing. My wife's
eyes are blue and her is white by nature, not by cosmetics. I do not
think that is something she should have to be ashamed or apologize for.
I'm sure no one has teased Ms. Hughes about the color of her eyes. Maybe
her weight, possibly that bad weave job, but probably not her eyes.
To Ms. Hughes, a woman who has never met my lovely wife, I say: How
black does my wife have to be to satisfy you? What size jeans should she
wear to meet your approval? Why should she give a damn? And finally, when
will you be hit by a bus and the world will be free from prejudiced
thinking like yours? What is it about MY wife, anyway? You sure seem to
have something against her. Does she remind you of someone who took your
lunch money when you were a kid? Did she win homecoming queen over you?
Did she beat you in a pie-eating contest? Maybe it's me. Did I stand you
up on Prom Night? Did I sleep with your sister? Or are you just so petty
and shallow that you, like other prejudiced trash around you, just
decided to attack me because of my wife's skin color?
Point blank: you're a racist. Your kind of thinking poisons this
world, and it's sick. Maybe when your kind dies off, the world will be a
better place for my little girl to grow up.
Mr. James Logan
New York, New York
END
The original can be found at http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=355789.