Blue And Green

    Blue and green. When people ask me what my favorite color is, my response is always "blue and green". The color of fresh spring leaves against a cloudless sky. The color of a floating island of water hyacinths drifting on river currents after a storm. The color of tall stalks of spiderwort beside the sparkling swimming pool at the start of summer.

    Actually, "blue and green" wasn't always my answer. In the third grade, My Gifted Program teacher, an old man named Willis Wright, asked me what my favorite color was, to which I thoughtfully replied, "Ummm...red and black" (two colors known to induce anger and depression). Can you imagine a 7-year-old girl loving the colors red and black? Most little girls that age are drawn to pretty pinks and purples. But not I - I was apparently drawn to blood and death....maybe this is what got me kicked out of 'Gifted'.

    You might be wondering now, "Well, what kind of a little girl WAS she?", And as it turns out, I was angry and depressed. My mother married for money, and as it happened, my father didn't have any. This led to my mother being angry and depressed, which not only resulted in a lot of raised voices and stomping around the house, but also bled into the way she treated me.

    One incident of note: I was riding in my mother's black Dodge Rampage, a vehicle I was convinced was actually Kit from Knight Rider (if you know, you know). There were three of us spread across the front seating - my mother driving, my friend Chrissy squished in the middle, and me by the passenger door. I recall I was having a great time, and was being quite the 'Chatty Cathy', when suddenly my mother reached over Chrissy and struck me in the face.

    Maybe I had said something bratty. Maybe my mother was just tired of hearing my voice. Whatever the reason for the assault, I fell silent the moment her hand made contact with my cheek, and I will never forget my friend's expression - wide-eyed shock and pity, Chrissy no doubt embarrassed for me. As I fixed my gaze downward for the rest of the ride, tears dripping hotly onto red corduroy pants, something changed inside me that day. I would learn to choose my words more carefully. Trust in those around me would not come as easily. And I would keep a watchful eye over my shoulder for the next punishing blow.

    As the years went on, I spent most of my time alone. My main mode of transportation was my own two legs, but I would often shove off in our canoe and paddle downriver, on water the color of sweet tea, to a stand of trees between two neighboring properties. The land here was lower than the surrounding yards, and not quite right to build a house on, and so it lay unsullied, full of irises, marsh rabbits, and black racers. Here I would glide up between the cypress knees until the canoe ran aground, then hop out onto hard-packed black mud with calloused bare feet. Tucked away behind drooping cypress branches, I would follow the well-worn trails made by foxes and raccoons until I found a good climbing tree along the shore.

    Hoisting my young limber body off the ground in those days came easily and using sturdy limbs to scramble 15-20' high afforded me an uncluttered view of the cove. From high in a cypress, cicadas buzzing loudly in the canopy above me, the vast expanse of tannin-stained water appeared as blue as the springtime sky. If the clouds were thin and wispy, diffuse sunlight would cast a net of a thousand shimmering diamonds on the river's surface. Fresh tender shoots of bright green cypress needles were my window frame, making everything in sight blue and green. This became my refuge, my happy place, full of both peace and possibility. Part of the blue and green landscape, I was untouchable.