Threads of Resistance

I feel sad for people who think Black is a bad color, a sad one, or one devoid of any joy.

For as long as I can remember, Black has welcomed me into its arms and kept me safe. It’s provided refuge when I’ve felt too big or too wide. I’ve found solace in the warmth of Black when yellow and pink have rejected me.

I feel sad for people who look at me with pity when I tell them Black is my favorite color. What I would give to adopt all the poor Black kitties who continue to be neglected or to dream of quirky outfits with different textures and layers of Black.

When I decided to live my life in Black, I felt more confident, sexy, and wanted. I didn’t feel like I needed to rely on any other colors to dictate who I was or who I should be. It’s why I felt incredibly torn apart when women were no longer allowed to wear Black. Suddenly, I had to think about how I looked, what I wore, and what others would think of me. This was the start of something bigger, too. It starts with telling us what to wear—or what not to wear, in this case. The world (men) wanted more flowers and brighter colors. They wanted women to be women again (I’m paraphrasing what they really said, which was “girls to be girls again”). The GTBGA movement was reaching critical mass, and I thought I had done well to miss its arrow.

I understood that, in the old days, men didn’t feel like they could be men, but I didn’t realize they would place the blame for this on women. I suppose I was being naive.

Buckets had started to appear throughout town, with BLACK written in big, bold letters. We were to bring all our now forbidden clothes to be burned here within the next month. After that, they would become contraband. For the past week, I’d fallen asleep to the smell of foul petrol and burning cotton.

We are a small minority who wear Black, so the buckets are never full when I see them. Fittingly, I wish I could wear Black to mourn the death of this.

I’d planned to take all my clothes—except my underwear (who’s truly going to check?)—on Tuesday, that way I wouldn’t have to smell the burning because I’d be at my mother’s place, and she lives out of town.

Tuesday came, and I started to separate myself from Black and mourn in my own way while wearing the Black underwear. We were a week away from Black being illegal. We were a week away from me losing my identity. I started to rebrand myself and take care of my minimal collection of Black underwear. I washed them slowly and patiently, wary that the color would eventually fade and my small act of resistance would become moot.

When the new order came, the change was subtle. Women had been adapting to the GTBGA movement for years now anyway. Not much was different, apart from random spot checks on the street. Then I got a letter saying they would start rummaging through our wardrobes and drawers, so I hid what I had under the floorboards or in containers of food. Then came the physical spot checks. Before entering a workplace, university, or school, you had to show you were not wearing Black. I had to ditch my underwear. But I sewed the seams of my clothes with Black thread. This, too, was no longer allowed. I could have cried, but I just felt numb to it all and did what I was told.

I became a ghost of myself being forced to live in color. I had never been depressed before, so it was quite scary. I went to stay with my mother, out of town. The changes hadn’t begun that far out of town yet, as often with these things, the center of cities and university towns are hit first.

I found some refuge in my mother’s hometown. I watched some women wearing Black handbags and headbands and onyx stones on their rings. I was green with envy, but on the outside, I looked like Little Bo Peep. The only clothes you could buy now were frilly skirts, bows of all kinds, and fitted shirts. I hated how exposed I felt (even though everyone looked the same).

I sat across from my mother during dinner and inspected every aspect of what she wore. Her Black claw clip, polka dot printed loose blouse with her favorite shirred Black and white striped skirt. My mother was always loud and quirky. I love her for it.

But you see, she can get away with it because she’s older. She’s already gone through the menopause. I heard some women talking about partaking in hysterectomies or taking this hormone or that hormone, which would fast-track them to menopause. My ears perk up, but I still feel numb. I can’t think further than the next day. The only thing I do consider is whether I should go and get myself some anti-depressants.

My world was grey and bleak. I used to be so happy, or at least less sad than this. And I could cope with the sadness I’d felt back then. I was in control of it, I’d cook or eat something or go and see my friends. But this was a hideous and ugly, Black type of sadness. This was imposed on me. I’ve been forced not to wear Black. I’ve been forced not to have any personality. I’m forced to be like everyone else, which is what they want and intended with this.

It’s been a year and I still feel numb. I’ve taken anti-depressants, and while the sadness is less, the light in my life has gone. I don’t think I could ever be happy with this agenda moving forward. There is no place for me in this new world order.