Sequel: Cure ›
Sickness
Orange
Ever since I was little, I knew I was different.
Maybe it’s my skin color.
My skin is as black as the night sky, as dark as ebony wood.
Other kids around me had beautiful, fair skin. Soft, delicate, and untouchable. I wanted to have their gorgeous skin color. I wanted to sit with them at lunch, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread, while we talked about the cutest boys in our grade.
Maybe I’m different because of my family.
I only have a mother. That’s it. No father. I don’t even want to know who he is.
Everyone in the suburban town I live in has a mother and father. These are all working families. But as I matured, I observed, and saw the internal problems of life on my block. Fathers would come home late with the top button of their shirts undone, their faces flushed. Mothers would have bags under their eyes, and their smiles turned into mold on their faces after a while. They weren’t real. They weren’t natural. And I wasn’t like that at all. I’m still not like that.
Maybe I’m different because my favorite color is orange.
It sounds strange, but it’s true. I was out-casted in my elementary school days for liking the color orange. Everyone I knew liked pink or blue. Well, I don’t like pink. Or blue, for that matter. Orange represents a lot of things. But the one I like the most is the anti-racism ribbon.
But even if orange does represent anti-racism, I still love the color. It stands out so much. The brightness of orange is so beautiful, that I can almost see people illuminated when they wear it. It’s such a beautiful color.
Mom asks me why I don’t like red. Well, red is the color of my illness. Red is the color of blood. Red is the color of heat. Red is the color of a stop sign. In East Asian countries, the names of the deceased are written in red ink in a Book of the Dead. To write a living person's name with red ink is taboo. Red is also the color of an old star before it explodes and dies.
I don’t want to explode and die.
Red is also one of the colors of my name. Rose.
That is the only thing I like about the color red.
Orange has always been my favorite color. It will always be my favorite color.
It is the color of the sun, the color of a envelope that holds freshly printed pictures, the color tulips, and all around happy color.
And it has absolutely nothing to do with what’s eating me up inside, whereas red has everything to do with it. That’s what I like about orange. But there’s one thing I don’t like about orange.
Roses don’t come in that color.
Maybe it’s my skin color.
My skin is as black as the night sky, as dark as ebony wood.
Other kids around me had beautiful, fair skin. Soft, delicate, and untouchable. I wanted to have their gorgeous skin color. I wanted to sit with them at lunch, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread, while we talked about the cutest boys in our grade.
Maybe I’m different because of my family.
I only have a mother. That’s it. No father. I don’t even want to know who he is.
Everyone in the suburban town I live in has a mother and father. These are all working families. But as I matured, I observed, and saw the internal problems of life on my block. Fathers would come home late with the top button of their shirts undone, their faces flushed. Mothers would have bags under their eyes, and their smiles turned into mold on their faces after a while. They weren’t real. They weren’t natural. And I wasn’t like that at all. I’m still not like that.
Maybe I’m different because my favorite color is orange.
It sounds strange, but it’s true. I was out-casted in my elementary school days for liking the color orange. Everyone I knew liked pink or blue. Well, I don’t like pink. Or blue, for that matter. Orange represents a lot of things. But the one I like the most is the anti-racism ribbon.
But even if orange does represent anti-racism, I still love the color. It stands out so much. The brightness of orange is so beautiful, that I can almost see people illuminated when they wear it. It’s such a beautiful color.
Mom asks me why I don’t like red. Well, red is the color of my illness. Red is the color of blood. Red is the color of heat. Red is the color of a stop sign. In East Asian countries, the names of the deceased are written in red ink in a Book of the Dead. To write a living person's name with red ink is taboo. Red is also the color of an old star before it explodes and dies.
I don’t want to explode and die.
Red is also one of the colors of my name. Rose.
That is the only thing I like about the color red.
Orange has always been my favorite color. It will always be my favorite color.
It is the color of the sun, the color of a envelope that holds freshly printed pictures, the color tulips, and all around happy color.
And it has absolutely nothing to do with what’s eating me up inside, whereas red has everything to do with it. That’s what I like about orange. But there’s one thing I don’t like about orange.
Roses don’t come in that color.