I wish i was colour-blind. I grew up seeing hate, hearing murmurs, whispers, shouts and chants dedicated to it.
I was raised to see, to notice buoyant blues, exotic yellows, muddy blacks and browns and pristine, crystal clear peaches and whites. All while also being indoctrinated into appreciating the rich texture blacks, browns and beiges held and to understand the ominous glares and true colours that bubble and boil beneath the surface of porcelain pinks and solid whites.
I grew up knowing what was what and who was who and understanding that every colour is different, very different. That’s just my life i suppose, our life; part of a history i inherited. Memories that now feel as though they are my own, experiences that feel real to the touch and wounds that map themselves on my skin as though they were my own.
Part of me thinks that not being colour-blind couldn’t be such a terrible thing; there’s no room to confuse one shade for another, to offend one texture of blue by mistaking it for the other. It could work in my favour; it could be a beautiful thing.
To look up at a true blue sky; to know that so much more blue, so much more navy, black and an infinite amount of other colours lay behind the crystal veil we look up at, to know all of that exists, is a beautiful thing.
It’s a gift.
To know that your world is rich with diversity, to enjoy the many experiences you’re afforded by each colour, is a magnificent gift and one not many enjoy. Not being colour-blind affords me the power of association. A skill worth wielding in a world obsessed with difference; i know that blues are soft, smooth and glide like cool silk – peace. I know that oranges are warm, inviting and vibrant – happiness. I know that reds are hypnotic, smouldering and ferociously determined in their presence – anger.
Then the other part of me insists that being colour-blind would be best. Imagine a completely blended perspective; where it’s just substance that dominates your audience. Imagine a world without spectra as a world without separation, a world where golds, pinks, browns and reds can mould into one canvass and not be at war with each other.
Would that not be a gift?
The vibrancy behind a life without clear definitions and restrictions and rules and fear…and fear, the vibrancy behind a world without fear – of one by the other – is a beautiful gift.
But a world of grey is a world without names; that’s both a good and a bad thing.
I guess we’re already colour-blind, myself included. In a world where beauty isn’t beauty without it being black beauty or white beauty; we’re definitely a world that only sees black and white. Where are the blues, the golds, greens and purples?
I wish i wasn’t colour-blind. i want my children to grow up seeing the deep crimson glow of love, feeling the warm hum of a golden yellow sun and knowing the incomparable beauty behind their dark chocolate skin.