18. Pink

Painting by Renny Spencer

I WAS PINK. That was the color my parents assigned to me. When I was born, I was given a name, Nadina Maria, and a color––pink. My older sister Lori was blue; my older brother Al was yellow. After me came green (Ron), brown (Leonard) and black (Richard). By the time Ray came along eight years later, colors were no longer dispensed, or else no one cared to remember his. The problem with the colors was that they labeled us incorrectly.

AT LEAST IN my case:pink. Pink––to my parents––meant feminine, soft and delicate. I was a tomboy! I hated dolls; I hated dresses; I hated waves in my hair tied up in ribbons. So many times I sobbed as Mom styled my hair with pinned-up curls. Dad would poke his head in the doorway. Oh, you shouldn't cry, it makes your face all puffy. Don't you want to look pretty?

NO I DID NOT. I wanted to wear jeans and play ball with my brothers. I wanted to wear football shoulder pads so I could show I was capable of taking hard hits. I wanted to wear fishing boots so I could catch tadpoles in the ditch. I wanted to wear a mitt. I wanted to run through the hot summers without wearing a shirt.

TO ADD SALT to the wound, every birthday and Christmas, for maybe my first six years, and regardless of how much I complained, no matter how much I begged for a puppy, I received a doll in a pink dress. Most of them were thrown out the back door, some were buried in the yard. The only one I kept long enough to remember her name––Rosie, sister to Lori's blonde, blue-clad doll Dodie––I kept buried in the third drawer down in my dresser. I never played with her, but I didn't hate her; it was not her fault that she landed in the wretched lap of a heartless, callous child. A sad life for a lovely doll.

ONE DAY, when I was three or four, I got a splinter in my finger. Dad said he would get it out. Oh no! That will hurt, I said as I locked myself in the hall bathroom. It won't hurt, said Dad. I promise. It will be over in a second; you will feel much better when it is out. Would I lie to you? If you let me take it out you can open one of your presents under the tree. Oh, no, no, I cried. I don't trust you; it will hurt; I won't feel better.

BUT STILL–– a present. Hmmm, maybe. I really liked presents. And how long could I stay locked in the bathroom anyway? I finally agreed. Dad dug out the tiny piece of wood with a needle that he heated over a flame on the stove; I screamed. I was then told I could pick any box with my name on it, which I did, a long skinny box, medium sized. Inside was––and how did I even think it would be something else––a doll. How could life be so cruel? I ran to the kitchen, really wailing now, and threw her in the trash bin. Seduced, deceived, betrayed––sold down the river.

I STARTED TO lose faith, began to think life would always be disappointing. Why even make a wish list if nobody read it. And then, the following Christmas, when I was just about to give up hope–– praying wasn't working, crying and begging weren't working, someone––God, my parents, Santa?–– took pity on me, and sent me a frog––a croaking, wooden pull-toy frog, a frog that I pulled around the house for months, inch-inching behind me, a frog that I loved with all my heart, a frog in beautiful green.

IT'S BEEN SIX decades since I first waged war on the color pink, and one decade since I have made peace with it. I never wore it, in clothing or nail polish or lipstick; I never adorned my house with it, in furniture or wall paint; pink flowers had no place in my studio garden. Other than to bring life to a dog's tongue, or to add accent to a sunset, and recently into my portraits, I have never used pink in my paintings.

MY MOTHER PICKED out all of my clothes until I left home at eighteen; she did, however, eventually, let me pick the colors. I recall, with utter joy, one special day shopping when she said I could pick out any color dress. I chose a metallic striped dress that contained every color in existence; my mother was horrified; I was crazy happy. She kept her word and I wore it until it fell apart.

I THINK MOM tried to understand that I was mismarked at birth, but she could never really relinquish the identity she had constructed for me. It was necessary to her well-being that her categorization of the important pieces of her life, and that included her children, were kept intact. I understood this from an early age and, even though I would have relished venturing across an honest childhood, it was never necessary to me that she know the bona-fide me. At some point in my adolescence I stopped having an opinion about most things discussed at the table; I stopped thinking my parents wanted to know what I was about.

BUT IT CAME up one last time. Mom was over eighty; she died soon after; the times we spent together had become comfortable, if not easy. Whatever remnants of resentment still lingered inside me quietly leaked out like air escaping through a tiny hole in a balloon. No anger, no regrets, I had long ago donned my true colors; pink no longer carried any meaning. The previous year, as a Christmas gift, I gave each of my grown children an artist's sketchbook, scissors and a glue stick, with instructions for creating an "I LOVE" scrapbook, for which there is only one rule: you must love anything you paste in the book. This would be my fourth book, and what I learned was that they create an intimate and revealing glimpse into one's life, a diary in pictures. I decided to share mine with Mom.

IF YOU CARE to Mom, go through this book sometime, over a cup of coffee. It's nothing important. just a year of clipping pictures that get my juices flowing. You might enjoy it. She said she would and I believed her. I remember wishing she had one of her own to offer in return.

THE FOLLOWING morning she called to apologize. Oh, Nadi, she said. I never knew you.

 

17. I Never Did

BUDDY WAS MY person in the world when I was a young girl. Actually, he was a dog, A Samoyed from a long line of family Samoyeds named Buddy. Oh, do you know what it feels like to finally have the dog you wish for? Jeffie helped me through my first grade crush: Sparkle was a good friend: Pal was the first dog that was mine alone, a Doberman Pinscher that Dad brought home from work. But I still wanted a Sammy, and one Christmas Buddy came. I adored him.

WHENEVER A SUPERVISING eye was occupied elsewhere, Buddy and I roamed the countryside near home. Anything and everything held my interest. Blue-bellied lizards, tadpoles in the irrigation ditches, birds on the telephone poles. One spring day, after spending hours counting bird eggs in the grapevines, we wandered farther– so many beautiful sights to see, Buddy happy to tag along. When I grew tired I looked around for a good place to nap and found a tree in a neighbor's orchard. The branches hung low and swayed with the breeze. I sat leaning against the trunk with Buddy's head on my legs, and I fell asleep. When I woke it was darker, later, way too much later to have been gone. Oh no, I am in trouble now.

I RAN HOME and found Mom and Dad pacing the kitchen. Dad, angry, grabs my shoulders. Where have you been? he says loudly. Exploring, I answered. Exploring?! Yes, I fell asleep under a tree. Under a tree? he says. Do you know how dangerous that is? Do you? Anything could have happened; anyone could have taken you! Taken me where? I asked. You're too young to understand, he said. There are bad people in the world. Never, ever, fall asleep under a tree again.

I NEVER DID.

THE NEXT TIME I went roaming, I avoided comfortable trees and headed toward Spruce road, turning left to town. After a mile or two, we came alongside a canal; I walked along the top of the embankment, Buddy weaving back and forth in front of me. Suddenly a bird flew low in front of us and Buddy chased it, getting way too close to the edge, lost his footing and slid right into the canal. I screamed Buddy! Buddy!, running along to keep up with him as the flowing water swept him along. I'm frantic, screaming for help. I search for a ladder on the side of the canal but nothing, and not a person in sight. 

AND THEN THERE he is– a man on a motorcycle, youngish, scraggly beard, tattoos covering his arms and neck, sporting an earring. For one split second the thought occurred to me that he might be one of those dangerous people my parents warned me about. He pulls to a stop and asks if I need help. I'm desperate: I jump on the bike and point ahead at Buddy, who looks tired, but still paddling: the stranger nods.

I HAVE A plan. I can't hold this tall skinny man, but he can hold me. He looks strong. We pass Buddy, and then we jump off the bike while I tell him I will go head-first down the side of the canal while he holds me by my feet. His face freezes with eyes wide, he rubs his chin stubble, hesitates briefly, then yells Go! It's now or never! He grabs my legs while I crawl down the cement wall, reaching into the water. Lower! I yell. I can see Buddy getting close; I grasp his neck fur with both hands, while he kicks frantically, scratching up my arms and face. Pull! I scream; I feel my legs stretch. I am pulled up and back, and then all three of us fall in a pile on the concrete bank. 

OH OH OH, we are safe. Buddy shakes his abundant coat, throwing water in every direction. He whimpers and licks my face. I have never been so happy. We catch our collective breaths, we laugh a bit. I say Thank you from the bottom of my heart. We do not know each other's names. We do not ask.

THEN TATTOO MAN, my hero, looks at me very seriously, but with a smile in his eyes. Promise me one thing, he says. Never, ever, tell your parents what you just did.

I NEVER DID.