The Colour of Becoming

My mother was a traditional woman. Always say grace before dinner. You can’t wear those trousers, you’re a girl. Boys wear blue, girls wear pink. Don’t even get me started on this pronoun nonsense.

Naturally, in the developmental stages of my life, many of her opinions became mine. I held the same views and values that she did. So, when I was ten years old and she dropped me off at school one morning and on the right side of Jessica’s dad’s chest sat a striped pin of green, blue, and white, I grimaced in disgust despite not actually knowing its meaning.

She was new, and by chance, I was tasked with showing her around the building. I didn’t even look at her. I mumbled my descriptions flippantly with crossed arms and flinched away when she got too close, like she was an unfamiliar disease and I didn’t know if she was contagious or not.

The next day, a different man dropped her off, and when she referred to him as ‘daddy’, I finally understood what the badge had meant.

She was shy, Jessica was, and also a loner. She ate her lunch by herself at the corner of the lunch hall and always had her head in a book during playtime. Jacqueline Wilson, I remember.

She approached me a few times over her first couple of weeks. Presumably, she only felt comfortable enough to talk to the girl who had shown her around, the only person she had actually interacted with, despite how standoffish I had been. Of course, I brushed her off. I didn’t say anything mean - mother taught me better than that - but I’m sure the way my eyes scanned her superciliously and the way my hair brushed against her face harshly as I spun around promptly to walk away got my point across just fine.

She never spoke to me again, and I was glad of it. It didn’t stop me from watching though, perceiving. Sometimes dad would drop her off and pick her up, sometimes daddy. Other times, it was both. Those were the times that fascinated me the most, the times that piqued my attention like a moth to light.

There were many things about them that confused me - their laced fingers and the way they seemed to fit together perfectly despite everything that was wrong with them, their equally broad statures and the way daddy was able to rest his head on dad’s shoulder even as the slightly taller one, even their beards confused me, how did they kiss comfortably? The thing that perplexed me the most, however, was the smiles. Every look, every fleeting glance as they fiddles with one another’s fingers, held the brightest grins I had ever seen in my short life. They both had immaculate teeth, I knew that because I saw their teeth a lot, their happiness making them impossible to miss. I didn’t understand how they could possibly feel fulfilled. What they were doing was wrong, but how could something so wrong be the cause of so much joy?

I remember staring at them from my classroom one day. School was nearly over, the last day of the school year, and the parents were standing behind the closed gate, waiting to collect their children. I spotted them instantly, their presence like an shrieking alarm that only I could hear.

There was nothing out of the ordinary. They were holding hands and smiling, just like always. What wasn’t ordinary though, was the way dad’s eyes locked onto mine as I stared and the way he smiled gently and gave me a little wave, giggling to himself at the silly little child watching them, definitely not paying attention to her teacher.

My rational mind was telling me to look away, that it was disgusting, improper, a disgrace. But something else, a little part of me wriggling at the surface, wanted to wave back.

Jessica’s beaming smile mirrored her parents’ as she sprinted into their arms, being thrown into the air as she giggled gleefully.

She looked truly happy, and I realised with a start that I had never seen her smile before.

An overwhelming guilt rose within me and I felt suddenly that I wanted to tell her I was sorry. For something in particular, or for many things, I wasn’t sure.

She didn’t return for the next year, and I never saw Jessica or her parents again.

—

At sixteen, I had begun forming some of my own opinions about the world. I no longer believed that pink was a girls colour and blue was a boys colour. I was also far more open to the possibility of other sexualities and preferences besides my own existing in my spaces. Some things were a little more difficult to shake, though; nature doesn’t escape so easily.

I had become friends with a set of twins, Georgia and Harry. They were a year younger than I was, but I got along with them better than anyone in my own year. Something just clicked, and ultimately, we became a trio. It would always make me laugh that they were polar opposites despite being twins. Harry had an all black wardrobe, piercings adorning both of his ears to the point that they were more metal than skin, and he was growing out his ginger hair in the hopes of dying it black one day. Georgia, on the other hand, had the type of style I could only think to call angelic. She wore baby pink skirts and floral tights and butterfly clips in her ginger hair that matched her brothers’. She had a passion for makeup, and her sparkly pink eyeshadow and the little silver gems she placed at the corners of her eyes were breath-taking. She had a true talent.

By this point, I had taken up painting in my spare time. Truthfully, I wasn’t very good at it and what was intended to be dainty often manifested in scattered blobs on the page, models unrecognisable. It didn’t bother me, though, it was mostly just a way for me to get my confused teenage emotions out in a non-destructive way, and it was enjoyable despite my lack of skills.

“Well, it’s definitely not winning any awards.” Georgia sighed sympathetically at my pathetic attempt at a dog as she hopped onto my bed beside me. Harry hadn’t joined us today. He was forcefully banned from entering my house again after mum overheard him stuttering through a jumbled confession of his newly discovered feelings for me; he’d been a little too careless in his adolescent experimentation, and I honestly believed that these ‘feelings’ were primarily just due to me being the only girl he ever talked to besides his sister.

Georgia and I had always been closer anyway, female bonding and all, so his absence didn’t leave too big of a hole.

Her comment hadn’t offended me, I was more than aware of the way I’d butchered the poor dog’s image. I laughed and shoved her lightly. “I’d like to see you do better. Don’t try though, because you could.”

She giggled and raised a soft hand to her mouth, covering her smile. I hated when she did that, her smile was beautiful and it made me sad when she hid it from me. The corners of her eyes crinkled slightly with her laugh, the little gems peeling off of her skin slightly, though never straying out of place. Her rosy cheeks plumped up at the apples and it took everything in me not to poke them endearingly. Looking at her was my favourite pass time, almost like an addiction. When she was talking, laughing, crying. When she was happy, sad, angry. My eyes never failed to find her, no matter how many people were in the room.

That night, I sat down at my desk and grabbed my paintbrush, its pleas for me to have mercy almost audible. But somehow I knew that what I was going to paint tonight would be my most proud piece of work. I dipped the brush into the orange pot and got to work.

—

Weeks passed and my connection to Georgia only grew stronger and my addiction became increasingly more difficult to maintain. I’d never felt so strongly about any of my friends before. I wanted to be around her all of the time and I felt like I could never get close enough. When she looked into my eyes I was never the first to look away, I feared I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to.

The realisation came to me as I stared up at the horrifically painted portrait of her, the restrictive bright orange paint an offensive block on her head. I hadn’t even thought about it before I painted her. I think I just desperately wanted to see her face again, even if I had to create it myself. In hindsight, it was a bad idea entirely. She’d never have spoken to me again if she’d laid eyes on that monstrosity. I still thought she was beautiful though.

Falling in love with her was an easier process than one would expect. Everything with her felt so natural. Her delicate disposition and gentle manner enveloped me like a warm hug that comforted me like no other and my heart ached for her in ways I didn’t know how to deal with. Her smile didn’t confuse me, and I realised that mine didn’t either. My smile was at its biggest with her, and it suddenly felt like the least 'wrong' thing in the world.

I didn’t rush into anything, I didn’t feel the need. I could love her from afar until I felt ready to make it known. Baby steps. I was my mother’s daughter after all, and some views were difficult to eradicate.

I think about Jessica and her parents and the person I was back then. I almost don’t recognise her. I wish more than anything I’d waved back that day.

As much as I’ve improved over the years, I’m still a little traditional. Now, my favourite colour, as well as my whole world, is pink.