Words by Kathryn Monsewicz
I needed a change of face. No, I don’t mean a new Facebook profile picture or Snapchat using the dog filter and talking like a two year old. I’m not giving up my signature Instagram kissy face or telling the world about the fake tooth I have.
Oh, by the way, world, I have a fake tooth. It looks real when I smile. But it’s fake.
We live in a world of constant change. The butterflies do it. The moon does it. Hell, even Miley Cyrus had to drop the bomb on Hannah Montana at some point.
Ever since I was a baby in a bassinet, I’ve lived in a blue world. I stared up at the sky when I was rolled around in a stroller and it was blue. I kicked and splashed and rolled around at Panama City Beach, Florida, where the ocean was blue. I chased and played with and rode like a horse my first dog whose eyes were so blue. The four walls that surrounded me. They were blue. And somehow I became a prisoner of the color. It only makes sense that my greatest fear is drowning in the open, blue ocean. So, so blue.
All my worst teen angst memories were spent crying and screaming and punching out all my hate and anxiety surrounded by the brightest calypso blue this far from the Caribbean. I’ve always been this shade of blue that I never really understood until I decided on changing.
If you’ve read my previous blog post on colors, you already know that I’m no longer that harrowing shade of effervescent blue.
In December of 2016, my “original” bedroom floor had to be replaced. Let’s just say I no longer let my aging cat who can no longer control his bladder anywhere near my place of rest. I decided long ago, perhaps around the same time I found out my dream of becoming a marine biologist was null and void, that I did not like my blue room. I wanted to change it. Stark white like a bride-to-be, blood red like Dracula’s lair, mahogany like a cozy log cabin, or maybe yellow like chirping chickadees. The rainbow was at my disposal, the coral reef a chroma of catastrophic colors, the florid fields of wild flowers were ripe for the picking, but I settled into a bed of lavender.
My floor would be changed. My walls repainted. But what I learned from the process was how tough change could be. Even when you are leaving behind a tale you found troubling, a life you wanted to unlive, it is still hard work to pick up that paintbrush and change it all in one fell swoop. Humans don’t change like that. With every stroke of the brush and every stir of the paint bucket, we are learning to accept the change and try our very best to become renovated models of what we used to be.
I could barely roll the paint onto my walls. I was ready to faint from lifting the roller over my head. And to think I had four entire walls to do yet! I pushed and I pulled, I climbed and I crawled, I cried and I kind of bawled. Moving the furniture, prying the lids off the paint cans, and cleaning out dirty brushes. It’s a piece of work, that is no lie.
It’s like stepping onto college campus freshman year. It’s a new school, a new environment, a new chance to change into an adult who kind-of-sort-of-somewhat-not-really knows what he or she is doing. You’re painting yourself anew. You’re working hard to become something you’ve never been before.
Blue was never purple.
Look at that rainbow and let me show you that blue comes before indigo and violet. Blue becomes purple.
The face of the color changes.
So when you put your foot down – left, right, left – and walk onto campus this fall, show the world the face you worked hard to build, the face you pieced together from broken hearts and anguished thoughts, for all that you have finished and for all that you have fought.
Ghandi said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” So change. And let the world see you.