My Fifteenth Birthday

My Fifteenth Birthday

“Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday, dear Teddy,

Happy birthday to you!”

I open my eyes. It’s all so . . . beautiful! No one told me there were so many breathtaking colors. I never knew that candles burn orange to red and back again. I look over at my friends. Darcy has the greenest eyes! And Lana’s hair is shockingly red, just like the flames on my cake. My cake! It has so many colors, including—what’s that one called? Some kind of blue maybe? It will take me ages to learn all these colors. What an incredible gift these Enchroma glasses are!

Memories flash through my head of all the times I was ridiculed for something I had no control over, by false friends, bullies at school, sometimes even my own siblings. “I have mon-mono-monocomy,” my lips stumble over the big, ugly word.

“It’s monochromacy, doofus,” my brother Alex scoffs, laughing. “Why not just say you’re color-blind?”

Once, when I was about ten, I asked Mom and Dad to describe color to me. They tried, using all the words they could, often accidentally saying the colors, but it was like describing flying to a fish, the conversation shadowed with the knowledge that it could never be experienced by the learner.

My parents tell a story from when I was even younger, I think four or five years old. My sister Lily hadn’t been born yet, and I was learning how to read. Mom kept pointing and saying, “Read the red word.” I would tap a random one, not understanding. Patiently, she would correct me. We would take a break, and when we came back, I’d try another one, which would, inevitably, be wrong. We went round and round like this, over and over again.

My mind strays to another memory, one filled with embarrassment and pain. It was summer, and I was about seven years old. I had been on the neighborhood swim team the previous year, but that was just kid stuff to a mature boy of almost eight years of age. Then I was just jumping in, floundering, and climbing out, my head never ducking under the water (thanks to my Spiderman floaties). This year, I would have to swim the whole length of the pool! Having watched the “older kids” most of that summer, I thought I knew exactly what to do: execute a flawless dive that takes you halfway across the pool, swim a few smooth strokes, and hop out of the pool. Just one problem: I forgot I was color-blind.

It started off okay. The dive was a little wobbly, but my strokes were quick and efficient. I guess too quick! What I did not realize was how little difference there was in the color of the water and that of the wall. Bam! My wrist hit the concrete edge of the pool deck. There was blood; there were tears (not from me, I swear). I had a purple bruise—at least they told me it was purple; I couldn’t tell–-for at least a month. My teammates never let me forget it either.

All these memories, and yet nothing could have prepared me for this. For the first time in my life, I was really seeing color!

“Teddy? Teddy!” Darcy and Lana startle me back to the party.

“What?”

“What did you wish for?” they ask excitedly.

“Maybe Enchroma goggles?” I respond, laughing.

People used to ask me if I dreamed in color. I don’t know. I’ve always had dreams that had more intricate story lines than mental pictures. Seriously, once I had a dream about getting Twizzler grease on my shirt and everyone around me panicking. It was crazy! (Do Twizzlers even have grease?) I do wish people could know what I experienced every day—it was just different. Every day until now, that is. I guess I did have color, though; just not how most see it. The shades in my life were people, places, and personalities. Those were colors to me.

I woke up excited today. I’d had my glasses for a week now, and this would be the first big test. My entire life, Mom had said, “Teddy, I wish you could actually see the beautiful colors in all the art at Crystal Bridges.” But I never could. My favorite exhibit was always the room with the hard candy in it. That, at least, I could taste and touch, even if I couldn’t see the supposed deep green color inside each wrapper. Or the sculptures! I used to think they were created for people like me. I hope, now that I can see in color, they won’t seem boring like that painting hanging in Lily’s room. It’s apparently “Modern Art,” with just one block of color; not very interesting, if you ask me.

We’re here! The usual 15-minute drive felt like hours, but we made it. Even walking in seems wonderfully different. I am handed a lime green sticker bearing the name of the museum: “Crystal Bridges.”  Looking up, I notice that, contrary to prior belief, the atrium walls are actually made up of two materials: dark brown wood and scrubbed grey metal. In the first exhibit, there are statues scattered in the center of the room, no less beautiful now than before, and art ranging from sketches smaller than my palm to murals covering entire walls. I don’t know where to focus my eyes. Even the walls are works of art! Each room is a separate color, coordinating with its contents.

Soon we come to “The Staircase.” At least, that’s what we had always called it. The steps spiral downward, each bearing a single word, but that isn’t the most magnificent part of it all. When I turn my eyes toward the ceiling, I do so hesitantly, cautious of the beauty I expect to find. I am speechless! It is so beautiful. There are hundreds upon hundreds of threads spaced evenly apart on the curved wall. Every individual strand is a slightly different color from the last. When seen as a whole, the breathtaking spiral forms a rainbow. Not the coloring book kind, but the soft, early April rain shower kind, with softer hues that blend gradually. In utter disbelief, I remove my glasses, revealing a view containing only grey or slightly white strands. I guess it has its own beauty, but I am eager to see the colors once again.

After tearing my eyes away from The Staircase, we wander around the museum, visiting each of my family members’ favorite pieces: Rosie the Riveter by Norman Rockwell, The Reader by Mary Cassatt, and many others, all of which are beautiful. One piece in particular catches my eye as we head for the door—a large circle of glass, with a red tint, that overlooks a pond. I look through it and see the water as if it is on fire, gaining yet another perspective of the world.

It’s been three months since my birthday. Blue, the kind you see in a summer sky, is definitely my favorite color. My glasses have gotten a lot of use in these weeks, but some days it just doesn’t feel right to be wearing them, so I leave them at home, remembering. Don’t get me wrong, having them is amazing, but I had grown accustomed to not being able to see color in everyday life. Having the opportunity to experience life through another person’s eyes doesn’t seem to be for ordinary days. After growing up without color, how could any day be ordinary?