The thinker of tender thoughts: The evolution of the color black
I’ve always liked the color black. I liked the way it looked on my fingernails during the winter. I liked the way it looked hugging me in an oversized cardigan. I liked the way it complimented my pale complexion in a hair dye.
I had a friend once tell me, “I feel like I have more power if I just give it to a guy before he tries to take it from me.” I related to this for a long time.
I couldn’t stand being alone in the presence of another male for a long time. I couldn’t stand the smell of that nice smelling after-shave that I once loved on someone. I couldn’t stand the tattoos. I couldn’t stand seeing the blue and purple dreads that ran long like the tears I shed.
I believe the human body does magic. I believe that a memory, a smell, the feeling, even a sensation that one finds unpleasant, the body fights to forget.
I don’t remember the feeling of his lips forcing themselves onto mine. I don’t remember the push onto my grandmother’s old couch in my new apartment. I don’t remember what was said.
But if I try hard enough I do remember how heavy he felt on top of me. I do remember that tingling feeling you get when you sit on your leg for too long and it feels like static right before going numb. I remember wishing my roommate would walk in.
With the weight of a thousand bricks, I remember how happy I felt in the previous 24 hours, consenting to a man who I think I’m going to marry—who still doesn’t know what happened that night.
I remember lying in bed for a week in my childhood room inside my childhood home surrounded by familiar faces. I could see the façade my family would put on to stop the 17-hour sleeping cycle that was swallowing me alive like a black hole that I couldn’t break free of. I remember.
I picture my mother’s face when I close my eyes. I can’t see the resemblance imbedded on the freckles in her caramel skin and her green eyes. I can’t see it when I stand a foot taller in comparison. I can’t see it within her voluptuous curves that showcase the transition of woman to mother.
I remember my mother’s sweet attempts to get me out of bed to see the rain—something rare for Arizona in June. While my nephew was spinning in circles, catching the rain drops with his mouth wide open and his eyes closed shut, I couldn’t get rid of the cloud of acid rain in my brain that was killing the flowers in my heart.
While I was sitting on a porch that had witnessed the transition of childhood to adult; that shared the laugher, the photoshoots by my father and the tears from my falls; that greeted me home from elementary school and welcomed be back from a four-year-university in a different city, I hadn’t seen myself coming home to those memories.
While sitting on that porch, I saw myself coming home to my mother.
I could see the pain I felt projected in her sobs while her words tried to comfort me. I could see the reflection of my tears on her face. I saw the façade fall and I could finally see the resemblance. The person standing in front of me shared that pain with me. She shared the pain only a mother with a depressed daughter can feel.
Almost a year later, I moved out of that first apartment. I’ve grown in different directions all towards independence. I can feel the flowers in my heart blossoming. I’ve become a thinker of tender thoughts. I speak less often; I tweet a lot less and I read a lot more; I listen. I’ve become a more selective person in all aspects of friendships, family and relationships. I’ve created a stronger relationship with my mother.
I’ve become more private. I’ve deleted all negative energy from my life with a touch of a finger. I have bad days and I have good days and the color black just isn’t for me anymore.