I had been a fan of the color red since middle school.
It was one of my first defining traits. I followed the footsteps of my brother for so long, but for the first time I tried to be my own person. He said his favorite color was blue, and I said mine was red. With that one change, I became someone different. I got red backpacks, red accessories, red books, and became “the person that likes the color red.”
It’s pretty silly to think that most people know me for the color green now, but I don’t really have much more to say on that.
The reason I mention it is because red is known for a lot of things, but the connotation can be seen as rather negative. A color tainting snow during a tragic murder, or the blaring sirens warning of an apocalyptic scenario. It was a color of aggression, and of danger.
It was also the color I was seeing as I yelled at my mother.
Because I finally was taking a stand.
-/-
It was almost the end of summer when I saw Dad walking through the front door with a collection of bags and my mother following behind. Oh, is she visiting for the weekend? She usually didn’t have much time. She had moved up to the northern side of the state to do some work and was missing from the house for most of the time I was trapped in university. It was quite a shame, really—I would have preferred she was out of the house the other 18 years of my life, not the 3 where I was also outside the house most of the time.
That was when I learned she had left her job and was coming back home to live with Dad again. I could feel my smile forcing itself up as my teeth were pressed together to stop myself from speaking. Greaaat. It was only a few weeks away from when I’d move back to college anyways, but even losing the freedom of the house for that long was enough to sour my mood. Not just that, but her being home meant there was a bit of an issue with my next goal for the summer.
I was about to start talking to my Dad about legally changing my name. I knew he was willing to help, but with my mother I knew I had to bring her into the conversation too now.
The talk was a blur. I barely remember what I was doing when it started, because I just remember being ready to return to my room before I was called back down. I mentioned how I would start working on my legal name change. I had an idea of how I was going about it, and before she came home I had all the permission I needed. It was my first major step to becoming who I wanted to be after all these years, and I was finally in a place to get it done. I just hoped I could leave it as a passing comment and my mother wouldn’t think much of it.
“No. No you aren’t”
A hard stop. A locked door. A brick wall someone was placing in my way after I had done every single thing I was asked for years before in order to be promised a path. And as I tried to knock and ask for safe passage, I was thrown away and told there was no chance. And then it was all red.
Years. Years of promises and commands I followed in order to achieve the life I wanted and they were simply ignored. Paragraphs and pages of written out logic and heartfelt feelings thrown out without a care. My voice was rising. My convictions were growing. With each half-assed excuse and complaint she gave me I found myself only getting more and more sure in what I would be doing. And with one more breath, I said:
“I will get my name changed, whether you help me or not. What will you do then?”
“Then I don’t think we can live under the same roof.”
I can’t remember much after that. I just remember being in my room, mind racing and breathing shaking. There was a terrifying feeling of what I was committing to. What I was deciding to do. The question of how much time I had left and how much I had to do in order to reach my perfect life.
All I wanted was to find a way to live with you. Settle down somewhere where nothing else mattered but my ability to be free and open with the person I cared about most. The ability to be myself and hear you say you love me. The freedom for us to be who we are together and no longer have to hide. And no matter how close it felt, I found the image of it fleeting in between throbbing heartbeats that echoed through my ears.
That bright red enveloping me wasn’t fading. The anger just melted away into danger. A flashing red telling me I was on life support, a blaring alarm telling me I was close to failure. To losing my home. Losing contact with my family. My friends. Losing money and opportunity. Losing my life. It was a flashing reminder of the situation I was in.
It was a flashing reminder that my dream was getting further and further away.
-/-
I’m not proud of the day and weekend that came after. I shut down completely. I’m sure people that didn’t deserve it caught glares or callous remarks as a result of it. I wasn’t ok, and I wasn’t willing to forgive my mother. She came into my room that night, a soft attempt at an apology. She never had it in her to admit she was wrong. Even her apology was filled with excuses. “It’s not how I grew up,” “It isn’t easy to change,” “It moves too fast for me,” between tears. I could barely find the sympathy to speak back to her. I didn’t want to give her any more leniency with how my life should go.
To this day, I haven’t changed my name. I meant to get it changed that summer because I wanted my degree from university to show my preferred name, but I learned later that I could request it afterwards. I risked my life for nothing, I suppose.
It was a difficult feeling to deal with while I went back to work. Work was my ticket to safety. Money I could use to be protected. To find food. Housing. You.
It was a worse feeling when that fell apart too.