All the Colors of the Rainbow by stormfreak  (PG for slight language) Summary: A racist magazine columnist bashes supermodel Ororo DePalma and her karate champion husband, Logan. Alternate universe. "So how is Ro?"  "She's, She's taking it hard, but shell be all right. You know Ororo shes a fighter."  "I just cant believe anyone would such a thing, Logan. Its 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. A survivor. Shell be fine. She's got you, she's got me, and she's got Bri. Between all of us, shell be fine."  Pause. "And you? How are you taking this, Logan?"  "I don't like it. I don't like anything that makes my wife upset, but all comes with the business you know? You cant please everyone."  Sigh. "I know but 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. Ill come visit when I can."  "Bye, Jean." "Goodbye, Logan."  Five-time karate world champion Logan "Wolverine" DePalma 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 8x10s 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 picked up a 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 Americas 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 very nice 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 DePalma, 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. Ms. DePalma, 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? Kind of like you, huh, Ms. DePalma? Should she marry a white man and acclimate herself into white society, denying her black roots, like you did? And what's with this guy, anyway? The great "Wolverine" DePalma, world champion in the art of karate. How the hell did these two meet? The Internet? Blind date? Maybe Mr. DePalma was looking for a hot piece of exotic black tail. I hear its in nowadays, to have a "colored" girl on your arm. (At least its better than screwing her at night, then going to see Mary Sue in the daytime.) 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? 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 back 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?"  "I don't know. I guess Ororo rubbed her head; she felt a headache coming on. "Logan 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, this is what I get? 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 a sellout?"  "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 its 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!? 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. Its 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 cant 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 said wearily up. He placed his head in his head and began to rub his forehead. "Look, Ro. 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. Its 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, its 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 cultures 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 ...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 its 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 deep and more urgent, the sound of a buzzer cut into their conversation. "Mr. DePalma?"  "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 Brian'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 half a day (he lived in Chicago then) 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 you weren't doin' anything that day, that, uh could, like, get married or something."  Silence.  "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?" "Yeah, 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 ring?"  "Come back when you have a ring." 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 (he later got it resized.) 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 Marie DePalma 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 daughters 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 cant 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 cant kick my ass, but then again, who can?"  Ororo laughed, and her bright blue 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 you give me a couple of minutes, babe? I got something I need to do real quick; then Ill 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 Logan DePalma'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."  "Yeah, in two weeks. Its a six-day shoot, plus a runway show. Hey, how would you like to meet me out there? Its 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. Id better go. Scott threw a hiss fit when he saw the last telephone bill. Ill 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 subscriptions ...What is 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? Its been five years, so they must be happy. And Logan DePalma is the greatest man who ever did karate. God bless this family.  Mary Morgan (a die-hard Wolverine fan) Portland, Oregon Dear Editors,  I don't care if Storm married her garbage man, as long as she keeps doing those Victoria's Secret shows.  Jordan Winston Sacramento, California Dear Editors,  What K-Mart did Paulette Hughes get her journalism degree? Just because no one would take her as a supermodel doesn't give her the right to dump on the most beautiful woman alive. 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 Ms. Ororo DePalma's defense. Ms. DePalma 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 DePalma is a wonderful model 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.  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 born black and she's been black all her life. She was black the day she married me, and she was black they day our daughter Brianna was born. Hell, she was black 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 has brown skin. 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. DePalma 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. DePalma 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 worlds. 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 ones 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 its me. Did I date you? Whatever. Point blank: you're a racist. Your kind of thinking poisons this world, and its sick. Maybe when your kind dies off, the world will be a better place for my little girl to grow up.  Mr. Logan DePalma Manhattan, New York END