I don’t like the social coloring of your skin. I don’t like the way that it makes me feel. Why are you not like me?
I don’t like your hair. I don’t know what I would do with it. I can’t put my finger on it. Can I touch it?
I don’t like your eyes; the way that you are looking, the way that you look scares me. What do you see with those things?
I don’t like your nose, too big, too small, too broad, too thin. I could breathe easier if it didn’t look like that. Would you pinch your nose?
I don’t like your mouth; the shape is problematic. Your voice is troubling. I don’t like it when you talk. Can you keep it down?
If I am honest, I just don’t like you because you don’t look like me. When I look at you, I feel that you are a work in progress or that some one messed up big time and that I am the finished product. I could blame it on your features but your body has nothing to do with it.
I don’t like you because you are not me. I just blame race for my god-like aspirations. I really want you to be made in my image.