Am I Blue?
For me, blue has had the connotation of gender for as long as I have lived. In fact, this notion goes back to a time when gender was perhaps the first thing that defined one’s role in the world. I am certainly glad I live in the here and now than in times past, but still, I feel the touch of history in my everyday life. Certainly, the role of men and women are still considered different, in spite of the absurdity of such a mandate. As a small child, I still remember the pair of paintings my mother hung on the wall in my childhood home. To be honest, they weren’t actual paintings at all, but reproductions, but I suppose that fact had little relevance to eight year old me. I only remember the smart blue outfit of the young man portraited in the one picture and the beautiful pink dress worn by the young woman depicted in the complimentary piece. Blue Boy and Pinkie were their titles. I know that a gentleman named Sir Thomas Lawrence painted them, but only because I happen to be curious about such trivial things. None the less, his art serves as a harsh reminder that blue is blue and pink is pink, just as boys are boys and girls are girls. With these notions in mind, I remember staring at the pictures as a small child when I was all alone. I felt such conflict and confusion as I pondered the dichotomy of the blue and the pink. I would stare at the dapper young man, garbed in a blue outfit made of the finest silk. I knew the boy was intended to be admired by other boys, being the very epitome of the traits my own father undoubtedly wished were in me. How I wanted to walk in the example of Blue Boy. To this day, when I hear the word “blue”, I remember the image of the young man I tried so hard to emulate. But truth be told, as I stood all alone in the upstairs hallway of our home, contemplating the mere handful of years that were my life, my eyes would always be drawn to the color pink. The radiance of the young woman touched my soul like a ray of sunshine, affecting me in a way I could not comprehend.
Am I blue? I thought so. Or at least I hoped so. I was certain I would never find the approval of my father if I were anything else. For a child to bear such a conflict, and that without anyone to explain what I was feeling was more than unfortunate. My having to reach adulthood in such a state proved to be utterly intolerable.
Am I blue? With all my being, I hoped so. I suppose I should mention here and now that the color blue quickly took on new meaning for me. Most would agree that blue is the color of depression. An entire genre of music proves this assertion. Certainly, the deeply emotional songs sung in the style of this same name were first created by former slaves, conjuring a dark metaphor that had not occurred to me until just now. Allow me to open the door to my soul for just a moment. Just as the slaves of yesteryear longed to be free, so did I wish to be freed from the slavery of my assigned gender.
Am I blue? Everyone said I was. Even in joy, the color blue cannot be ignored. Robin Williams had been around for as long as I had lived, and maybe a few years more. He made so many laugh, but in the end, he admitted his color was blue. I still miss you, Robin. I did not know why I felt as I did then any more than I understand why I feel as I do now. I only know that I was blue because I was denied being pink. For what feels like an eternity, I recall a lifetime of sadness as I struggled to bend my will to conform to the image of Blue Boy. Am I blue? It is with great remorse I must admit that I tried with all my being to be.
Am I blue? The color blue has often been associated with the color of a wound. “The blueness of a wound cleanseth away evil…” exclaims the book wrapped in black leather. I find it ironic that a book that claims to be Light is so often wrapped in black. I also find it ironic that the message I get from this book is far different than the message that is taught to me by those who purport to understand the words written better than I, but I suppose that point is neither here nor there.
Am I blue? My soul and spirit ached with fatigue as I wrestled with this question so many times. I remained uncertain of the answer, I only know that the blueness of my soul had turned to the blueness of injury. Am I blue? It would seem that if I were not, God, like my father, would be very angry with me.
Am I blue? My soul cried out to me to answer the question I have spent a lifetime avoiding. Am I blue? Only after a lifetime of anguish do I understand why Robin had to go. Am I blue? How else could I explain the pistol, the whiskey, or the bottle of pills I had collected? How I longed to visit Robin. Am I blue? My therapist could quickly confirm that the sadness I have endured for so long has blossomed into a fully developed neurosis. Am I blue? I had to understand, and soon. My time was fleeting.
There is a flag, a standard, a jack that begins with blue stripes that gives way to pink. This ensign stands to announce the plight of people who are trapped by the color blue, or even by the color pink, but for me, the distinction is the same. This emblem seems to understand that if I am to ever reach the white, the color of Light, the center stripe on display in this banner, I have to move from the blue to the pink. Am I blue? Blue Boy, you have lied to me. Am I blue? Father, you have lied to me. Am I blue? Church, you have lied to me. Am I blue? World, you have lied to me. Am I blue? I have feared for so long to answer this question, but now I fear refusing to. Am I blue? From the very depths of my soul I scream to the universe one simple word. “No!” Am I blue? No, I am pink! I am a woman!
Am I blue? I spent a lifetime understanding the color blue. All those years in which I lived a fraudulent life will never be returned to me. Now I wear my makeup and high heels and yes, my pink dress, with confidence, knowing that my life will end following in the footsteps of Pinkie. Am I blue? No, I am not. What about you?
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