Member-only story
Sometimes the Only Color You Need Is Black
I was 14 when it moved something in me. Not the absence of color, but of light.
I grew up with an overprotective mother [1]. Like most children in my situation, I ended up fearful, shy, and completely underprepared for what life had in store.
Year after year, I would have to be increasingly successful in school. I was allowed to play only in front of the house, while there was still light outside, and I had to follow whatever rules adults made up.
I can only assume that I had to be overly polite to neighbors, teachers, and basically every human being in sight, just to show that I received a proper education at home. But I was ok with all that. Until one day.
I was 14 and my mom was still the one to pick out my clothes. I had almost no say, except for some minor details, which I, of course, cherished as big wins. My most ardent desire at that time was to have some black in my wardrobe. Anything.
Every time I would ask for a black T-shirt or a black skirt, my mother would say, “Again?”. And my wardrobe would continue to be black-free, like a rainbow unicorn had just vomited on me. Why? Because “black is not suitable for children” [2], of course. Now say it again, but slowly. Black. Not suitable. Children. I was 14.
