english,
I do not know what colors are.
I've had them described to me multiple times; I've been told that there are thousands of them and that they vary from the brightest hues to the softest shades and that they surround us everywhere we go—that every thing has a certain color. I've asked what my color is, and I've been told that my skin is brown, and that my hair is black; that my cheeks are pink and that my eyes are a “unique” color: grey.
I am not dense; I know what unique means and I know that its meaning changes when it is used to describe me. Unique means different, one of a kind, special—but once it is used in a sentence pertaining to me, it means abnormal, queer, peculiar—and “unique” becomes more of a buffer than it is an adjective. For example: when someone calls my eyes “unique”, it only means that they are unable to do the one thing they are supposed to do: see.
That being said, I do not know what colors are, but I’ll tell you one thing about me: I always make it a point to ask my parents what color I'm wearing every time I put on a new set of clothes. I don't know when I started doing it, all I know is that I always have, even though I am fully aware that there is no point in doing so. That is why on June 8, 2015, I knew I was wearing a white shirt, black shorts, and white shoes when I met Blue.
I was in seventh grade when the teacher introduced our class to the newest student. I joined every one as we greeted her in unison: "Nice to see you, Blue."—which was ultimately followed by giggles and snickers, and even though I was not able to see anything, it did not take a genius to figure out they were doing so in my direction. I heard our teacher apologize to me, flustered, when she realized what she had asked the class to say as she guided Blue to a vacant seat, which—from what I could tell—was right next to mine.
We were told to be kind to Blue, and I remember thinking that there was a very unnecessary amount of emphasis on the word “kind” as our teacher said this; as if it wasn’t common sense to be kind to a stranger. What reason would anyone have to not be kind to her? I thought.
The day went on as it usually did, not a single word was spoken between Blue and I as I sat in my seat quietly reading a copy of a book my parents gave me which was printed in Braille. Now, before you say anything: yes, I read. I very much love reading. It is very important to me and it makes me feel like I belong with the rest of you, even in the smallest way possible. It has been my way of reassuring myself that I am not that unique after all. And so, I read every chance I get.
The class went on around me, but I hardly even knew what subject was being taught because I could not focus on anything—not even my book. I don't know if this is something a seeing person is able to do, but I have always had a certain talent: I know when people are staring at me—and when they do, it is very distracting. Maybe being able to feel people's eyes on me is God's way of making up for the fact my eyes can not feel anything at all, but my point is: I can always tell. And so, I looked straight at Blue (or maybe a few inches to her right—I do not know, unfortunately, there is literally no way I can tell), and asked her: "What are you looking at?"
"Why are you touching your book that way?"
I furrowed my eyebrows. "I am reading."
"With your hands?"
"Yes." I paused, has this girl not seen Braille before? "With my hands."
"Why not use your eyes?" I felt my face deadpan as I blinked at her twice in disbelief. I shook my head, took a deep, audible breath in—remembering what our teacher said about being kind to Blue—before I replied:
"They are out-of-order."
I smiled at her in a way which meant this conversation is over, and went back to reading my book. For a solid minute, I thought my silent message got through, and I went back to peacefully reading my book until she started speaking to me again.
"I have read that book before."
I froze. The book in my hands was one titled All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr—she must have been able to read the translation on the Braille cover—and as much as I hated to admit it at the time, I was surprised. It was one of my favorite books, and never in my life had I encountered someone who has read it as well. I was especially surprised since I assumed she was my age—and girls of my age liked to read about romance and fiction, not about World War II. And so I feigned nonchalance as I told her: "So have I." Which was followed by five seconds of silence before she replied:
"I understand why you read it. The girl in the story also reads with her hands because she cannot see. Because she is blind. Just like you—"
"Can I talk to you for a moment?" I was startled as I felt hands on my shoulders. I recognized the voice as my teacher's and I simply nodded as I took her hand, still taken aback by the blunt remark by the new student who I had barely known for five minutes just made, and in that moment, I felt whatever the feeling in between confused and hurt was called. I was hurt, because I did not really like to hear the “b-word”; I am well-aware that I am blind. I do not have to be told twice—but at the same time, I was confused. Because I did not understand the way she said it and the reason as to why she said it that way in the first place.
Our teacher pulled me outside of our classroom, apologizing again, because she failed to properly introduce me to Blue. She told me she overheard our conversation and explained to me that Blue was different, just like me. She says that Blue lacks a filter; that she says anything that comes to mind without a second thought. She says that Blue does not know what a "joke" is and that I should avoid making them around her because she knows I have a very dry sense of humor that Blue would not be able to understand. "Her mind is... special." She said; I did not like the way she said it. It sounded very much like Blue's special was my unique.
And so I was guided back into the classroom with a new understanding of the character seated next to me. I did not make any attempt to talk to her, fearing what she might say next, and I silently continued to read. But it did not take very long until I heard the sound of a chair squeaking against the floor—and the next thing I knew, Blue's shoulder was pressed against mine.
I froze for the second time that day. I did not know how to react. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t looking at me, but we sat like that for a solid minute before she spoke.
"I am sorry."
"What?"
"I am apologizing. For earlier. I do not know what for, but I am. I am sorry because you looked hurt. I do not want to hurt you. I am sorry you are blind."
I had to suppress a laugh after the last, unnecessary statement—which I found odd because I expected to feel offended after hearing the “b-word” for the second time that day—but I awkwardly accepted her apology. After that, I expected her to move away from me, or to avoid me for the rest of the school year in the fear she would unintentionally offend me again—but she never did. And for that entire day we talked about All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.
She told me her favorite character was Frederick, and I told her that mine was (very predictably) Marie-Laure. She told me she absolutely despised Werner for failing to protect his best friend that he knew for two years, but was prepared to die to save a girl that he met two days ago—she very darkly followed this up by stating that "Werner deserved to step on that land mine".
I listened to her talk, agreeing and disagreeing with her opinions and very hesitantly sharing mine (because I was afraid of her disapproval—I learned very quickly that she is terrifyingly passionate) and before I even realized it, the final school bell rang. Never in my life has a day gone by so fast.
To my surprise, Blue asked our teacher if she could be the one to guide me to the school gates at the end of class that day. She agreed with this, but she told Blue that she would have to hold my hand or else I would trip and fall—and Blue strongly refused to hold my hand. I will be honest: I was offended by this at first, but then I remembered what our teacher said earlier that day about Blue being different, just like me, and I realized I probably still had much to learn about her, so I kept quiet.
Blue suggested that I hold onto her belt loops instead, and our teacher put some thought into this. Then a few moments later, she asked me if I was comfortable with Blue's offer, and I agreed—but I would be lying if I said I did so without any hesitance (I recall there was a very generous amount of hesitance, actually).
And so, that was the first day of many days that I held onto Blue's belt loop with my left index finger and my walking stick in my right hand as she guided me to the school gates, and once we got there, our discourse about All The Light We Cannot See continued until our parents arrived. And once hers did, she said something that I will never forget:
"I will see you again, soon!"
"I'll see you soon!" I smiled, as I unknowingly replied without thinking about it twice, and if it weren't for a trail of giggles walking across me, I don’t think I would have realized there was anything wrong with that statement. To this day, I wonder if Blue ever realized the same thing, because to this day she still says the same six words to me before she leaves, not that it really matters, because I have still been saying the same four words in reply.
For the following years, this was how my days went. I bring a book, and more often than not, she has already read it, then we exchange our opinions. It didn't take me very long to realize that Blue was in fact special, but hers was a very different kind. I realized I was wrong; a thousand of my uniques combined would not even come close to what her special meant. Unique, when used to describe my eyesight, pertains to the lack thereof—but special, when used to describe her mind, means beautiful. Because Blue's special means her mind is a library with shelves upon shelves of books of different genres. Blue's special means she knows every capital of every country, and every prime number from 2 up to 7,057. Blue’s special means she feels the constant need to reassure me that “being blind is okay” ever since she thought she offended me on the day I met her by quoting The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and telling me: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” Blue's special means she sits too close, and she says too much, and she laughs too little because she doesn't get what a joke is. Blue is a book, and she is the only one I have not been able to fully understand—but something tells me I have all the time in the world to figure her out. Because our paths have crossed now, our lives are entangled with each other, and in a way, a part of me knows I was meant to find her, and that we would be stuck with each other for a very long time.
Now, it is June 8th 2019. We are in 10th grade and Blue still waits for me at the school gates before the bell rings to guide me to class with my finger around her belt loop, and she is still the one to take me back to the same gates once the day ends. We've talked about almost every book in existence, discussed a third of them twice, and right now, I am listening to her as she tells me how the most terrible possible dystopian future is the one found in Fahrenheit-451 by Ray Bradbury for she cannot imagine a world where reading is illegal. And as Blue rattles on for what I know could very possibly be forever if we were not required to go home after class or if the world were never to end, I realize I know what my favorite color is.
I nod along to every thing she is saying (she doesn't mind if I don't listen, I have discovered long ago that she simply adores talking) and soon enough she tells me her parents have arrived to pick her up. She pats my head—because Blue does not like hugging, but she says that this gesture means that I have been "very nice" to her—then she tells me what book to bring tomorrow, and I smile, leaning my head against the familiar palm of her hand. She lets go of my hair and leaves as I wave in her direction (I can only hope that I am waving at the right person). I wait for her to say goodbye, then she says it; and it is the same goodbye I have longed to hear at the end of every day for the past four years.
"I will see you again, soon!"
I do not know what colors are, but now I'm sure I know one.
Blue. Blue is the color of the sky, of the cover on All The Light We Cannot See, and of the shirt and shoes I am currently wearing. Blue is warm, and bright, and sits too close, and says too much, and laughs too little. Blue is special in the most unique way possible. And now, I feel inexplicably thrilled knowing that when the next person asks me what my favorite color is for a laugh, all I will have to say is her name.
Without a second thought and with a single smile, knowing that this goodbye is far from the last, I replied, "I'll see you soon."
Literary: Blue.
I do not know what colors are.
I've had them described to me multiple times; I've been told that there are thousands of them and that they vary from the brightest hues to the softest shades and that they surround us everywhere we go—that every thing has a certain color. I've asked what my color is, and I've been told that my skin is brown, and that my hair is black; that my cheeks are pink and that my eyes are a “unique” color: grey.
I am not dense; I know what unique means and I know that its meaning changes when it is used to describe me. Unique means different, one of a kind, special—but once it is used in a sentence pertaining to me, it means abnormal, queer, peculiar—and “unique” becomes more of a buffer than it is an adjective. For example: when someone calls my eyes “unique”, it only means that they are unable to do the one thing they are supposed to do: see.
That being said, I do not know what colors are, but I’ll tell you one thing about me: I always make it a point to ask my parents what color I'm wearing every time I put on a new set of clothes. I don't know when I started doing it, all I know is that I always have, even though I am fully aware that there is no point in doing so. That is why on June 8, 2015, I knew I was wearing a white shirt, black shorts, and white shoes when I met Blue.
I was in seventh grade when the teacher introduced our class to the newest student. I joined every one as we greeted her in unison: "Nice to see you, Blue."—which was ultimately followed by giggles and snickers, and even though I was not able to see anything, it did not take a genius to figure out they were doing so in my direction. I heard our teacher apologize to me, flustered, when she realized what she had asked the class to say as she guided Blue to a vacant seat, which—from what I could tell—was right next to mine.
We were told to be kind to Blue, and I remember thinking that there was a very unnecessary amount of emphasis on the word “kind” as our teacher said this; as if it wasn’t common sense to be kind to a stranger. What reason would anyone have to not be kind to her? I thought.
The day went on as it usually did, not a single word was spoken between Blue and I as I sat in my seat quietly reading a copy of a book my parents gave me which was printed in Braille. Now, before you say anything: yes, I read. I very much love reading. It is very important to me and it makes me feel like I belong with the rest of you, even in the smallest way possible. It has been my way of reassuring myself that I am not that unique after all. And so, I read every chance I get.
The class went on around me, but I hardly even knew what subject was being taught because I could not focus on anything—not even my book. I don't know if this is something a seeing person is able to do, but I have always had a certain talent: I know when people are staring at me—and when they do, it is very distracting. Maybe being able to feel people's eyes on me is God's way of making up for the fact my eyes can not feel anything at all, but my point is: I can always tell. And so, I looked straight at Blue (or maybe a few inches to her right—I do not know, unfortunately, there is literally no way I can tell), and asked her: "What are you looking at?"
"Why are you touching your book that way?"
I furrowed my eyebrows. "I am reading."
"With your hands?"
"Yes." I paused, has this girl not seen Braille before? "With my hands."
"Why not use your eyes?" I felt my face deadpan as I blinked at her twice in disbelief. I shook my head, took a deep, audible breath in—remembering what our teacher said about being kind to Blue—before I replied:
"They are out-of-order."
I smiled at her in a way which meant this conversation is over, and went back to reading my book. For a solid minute, I thought my silent message got through, and I went back to peacefully reading my book until she started speaking to me again.
"I have read that book before."
I froze. The book in my hands was one titled All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr—she must have been able to read the translation on the Braille cover—and as much as I hated to admit it at the time, I was surprised. It was one of my favorite books, and never in my life had I encountered someone who has read it as well. I was especially surprised since I assumed she was my age—and girls of my age liked to read about romance and fiction, not about World War II. And so I feigned nonchalance as I told her: "So have I." Which was followed by five seconds of silence before she replied:
"I understand why you read it. The girl in the story also reads with her hands because she cannot see. Because she is blind. Just like you—"
"Can I talk to you for a moment?" I was startled as I felt hands on my shoulders. I recognized the voice as my teacher's and I simply nodded as I took her hand, still taken aback by the blunt remark by the new student who I had barely known for five minutes just made, and in that moment, I felt whatever the feeling in between confused and hurt was called. I was hurt, because I did not really like to hear the “b-word”; I am well-aware that I am blind. I do not have to be told twice—but at the same time, I was confused. Because I did not understand the way she said it and the reason as to why she said it that way in the first place.
Our teacher pulled me outside of our classroom, apologizing again, because she failed to properly introduce me to Blue. She told me she overheard our conversation and explained to me that Blue was different, just like me. She says that Blue lacks a filter; that she says anything that comes to mind without a second thought. She says that Blue does not know what a "joke" is and that I should avoid making them around her because she knows I have a very dry sense of humor that Blue would not be able to understand. "Her mind is... special." She said; I did not like the way she said it. It sounded very much like Blue's special was my unique.
And so I was guided back into the classroom with a new understanding of the character seated next to me. I did not make any attempt to talk to her, fearing what she might say next, and I silently continued to read. But it did not take very long until I heard the sound of a chair squeaking against the floor—and the next thing I knew, Blue's shoulder was pressed against mine.
I froze for the second time that day. I did not know how to react. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t looking at me, but we sat like that for a solid minute before she spoke.
"I am sorry."
"What?"
"I am apologizing. For earlier. I do not know what for, but I am. I am sorry because you looked hurt. I do not want to hurt you. I am sorry you are blind."
I had to suppress a laugh after the last, unnecessary statement—which I found odd because I expected to feel offended after hearing the “b-word” for the second time that day—but I awkwardly accepted her apology. After that, I expected her to move away from me, or to avoid me for the rest of the school year in the fear she would unintentionally offend me again—but she never did. And for that entire day we talked about All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr.
She told me her favorite character was Frederick, and I told her that mine was (very predictably) Marie-Laure. She told me she absolutely despised Werner for failing to protect his best friend that he knew for two years, but was prepared to die to save a girl that he met two days ago—she very darkly followed this up by stating that "Werner deserved to step on that land mine".
I listened to her talk, agreeing and disagreeing with her opinions and very hesitantly sharing mine (because I was afraid of her disapproval—I learned very quickly that she is terrifyingly passionate) and before I even realized it, the final school bell rang. Never in my life has a day gone by so fast.
To my surprise, Blue asked our teacher if she could be the one to guide me to the school gates at the end of class that day. She agreed with this, but she told Blue that she would have to hold my hand or else I would trip and fall—and Blue strongly refused to hold my hand. I will be honest: I was offended by this at first, but then I remembered what our teacher said earlier that day about Blue being different, just like me, and I realized I probably still had much to learn about her, so I kept quiet.
Blue suggested that I hold onto her belt loops instead, and our teacher put some thought into this. Then a few moments later, she asked me if I was comfortable with Blue's offer, and I agreed—but I would be lying if I said I did so without any hesitance (I recall there was a very generous amount of hesitance, actually).
And so, that was the first day of many days that I held onto Blue's belt loop with my left index finger and my walking stick in my right hand as she guided me to the school gates, and once we got there, our discourse about All The Light We Cannot See continued until our parents arrived. And once hers did, she said something that I will never forget:
"I will see you again, soon!"
"I'll see you soon!" I smiled, as I unknowingly replied without thinking about it twice, and if it weren't for a trail of giggles walking across me, I don’t think I would have realized there was anything wrong with that statement. To this day, I wonder if Blue ever realized the same thing, because to this day she still says the same six words to me before she leaves, not that it really matters, because I have still been saying the same four words in reply.
For the following years, this was how my days went. I bring a book, and more often than not, she has already read it, then we exchange our opinions. It didn't take me very long to realize that Blue was in fact special, but hers was a very different kind. I realized I was wrong; a thousand of my uniques combined would not even come close to what her special meant. Unique, when used to describe my eyesight, pertains to the lack thereof—but special, when used to describe her mind, means beautiful. Because Blue's special means her mind is a library with shelves upon shelves of books of different genres. Blue's special means she knows every capital of every country, and every prime number from 2 up to 7,057. Blue’s special means she feels the constant need to reassure me that “being blind is okay” ever since she thought she offended me on the day I met her by quoting The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and telling me: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” Blue's special means she sits too close, and she says too much, and she laughs too little because she doesn't get what a joke is. Blue is a book, and she is the only one I have not been able to fully understand—but something tells me I have all the time in the world to figure her out. Because our paths have crossed now, our lives are entangled with each other, and in a way, a part of me knows I was meant to find her, and that we would be stuck with each other for a very long time.
Now, it is June 8th 2019. We are in 10th grade and Blue still waits for me at the school gates before the bell rings to guide me to class with my finger around her belt loop, and she is still the one to take me back to the same gates once the day ends. We've talked about almost every book in existence, discussed a third of them twice, and right now, I am listening to her as she tells me how the most terrible possible dystopian future is the one found in Fahrenheit-451 by Ray Bradbury for she cannot imagine a world where reading is illegal. And as Blue rattles on for what I know could very possibly be forever if we were not required to go home after class or if the world were never to end, I realize I know what my favorite color is.
I nod along to every thing she is saying (she doesn't mind if I don't listen, I have discovered long ago that she simply adores talking) and soon enough she tells me her parents have arrived to pick her up. She pats my head—because Blue does not like hugging, but she says that this gesture means that I have been "very nice" to her—then she tells me what book to bring tomorrow, and I smile, leaning my head against the familiar palm of her hand. She lets go of my hair and leaves as I wave in her direction (I can only hope that I am waving at the right person). I wait for her to say goodbye, then she says it; and it is the same goodbye I have longed to hear at the end of every day for the past four years.
"I will see you again, soon!"
I do not know what colors are, but now I'm sure I know one.
Blue. Blue is the color of the sky, of the cover on All The Light We Cannot See, and of the shirt and shoes I am currently wearing. Blue is warm, and bright, and sits too close, and says too much, and laughs too little. Blue is special in the most unique way possible. And now, I feel inexplicably thrilled knowing that when the next person asks me what my favorite color is for a laugh, all I will have to say is her name.
Without a second thought and with a single smile, knowing that this goodbye is far from the last, I replied, "I'll see you soon."
0 comments: