yellow
On the edge of Autumn, my sister-friend leaves a gift for me outside our door, a smart little bag with lemony wisps of tissue at the top. Inside I find a goldenrod scarf–smooth, silky-soft–and a note. Standing in the doorway with the lengths of that scarf spilling from my fingers, reading my friend’s elegant lists of yellow grace (butterflies and bumblebees, juicy lemons, sunflowers and…), I understand immediately that she wants to help me write a whole new story.
Just days ago, we sat on my porch in the crisp hours sipping coffee that tasted of cinnamon and nutmeg, dunking pumpkin cookies her daughter made, and I ventured to tell her a story from my childhood.
“For many years, I have carried a bias against the color yellow,” I began, peering over her shoulder at the bright leaves gilding my favorite tree, “and until recently, I’d not given it much thought.”
We had been talking, as sisters do, about how God patiently brings to light things we have kept hidden, how at just the right time He shows us long untended wounds that He intends to heal.
“I don’t have a lot of distinct memories from my childhood,” I went on, “except for the ones highlighted by family stories, but for reasons I think I’m only just beginning to understand, this memory stands out.”
I told her about little-girl-me, trying for invisibility in a bathroom stall while other girls bent on inflicting pain gave an overloud commentary that left marks. I was too young then to wonder what hurts might have moved those girls to hurt me. I sat crumpled over a toilet seat in my favorite sunny shirt, the soft one with the scalloped edges outlining my neck, and I stared at the spots where the thick enamel paint had peeled away from the stall door. I had felt like one of those spots, rough and ugly, and had counted the holes in a drain in the floor, willing myself not to make a single sound.
Of course, they knew I was there; the teacher had sent the three of us in as a group.
I looked over at my friend, caught her eyes, and continued, “They said, ‘Only the ugliest girls wear yellow, and no one likes them.’ They said, ‘Girls wearing yellow are dirty girls who stink.'”
“We were young,” I said parenthetically, with a small smile over the infancy of the insults.
I had understood the message the girls were sending–You’re disgusting; Stay away–but I couldn’t understand why they had targeted me or why they felt that way. I internalized the idea that there was something intrinsic to me that made me unlovable. Of course, this wasn’t an isolated incident. These girls had mocked and taunted me for quite a while, and in that way that children hide their shame, I had buried my stories deep.
“I’m just realizing that my bias against yellow is the only overt way I ever responded to what happened to me that day. I have avoided wearing that color for years because little-girl-me decided there must be some truth to what those girls said.”
I shake my head, incredulous that the experience could have had such long-term impact, even though I know that we all develop coping strategies in childhood that we never really question. We all do what we must to survive trauma we can’t comprehend, some of it far more tragic than my elementary experiences with bullies.
“I love every color but that one, and I never really even questioned why. All those years ago, I was trying to distance myself from the certainty that the people I wanted to befriend considered me worthless and disposable.”
The late day sun turned my friend’s hair gold at the back. We sipped our coffee while the breeze pulled our hair away from our cheeks and crunchy leaves drifted from the trees. For a moment, having no need for words, we let the silence develop. She smiled at me and wrapped her fingers around her mug, listening.
“But of course I know now that I had believed a lie,” I said, finally, “and I have decided: I’m taking yellow back.”
That day, we had laughed and meandered further on rivers running deep, and now, I stand in the doorway realizing just why God urges us to confess to each other. Together, we can take back stolen territory.
I look down at the scarf in my hand, watch the dangling tail of it begin to sway ever-so-slightly in the breeze, remembering that God sometimes describes redemption as something you wear. This time, for me, it will be a length of cloth, wide and long, like a pair of arms wrapped around my shoulders. This time, I hear God’s message for me, coming like a whisper on the wind. I have redeemed you; you are mine….See, I am doing a new thing.
