By
Casey Wright
Morehead, Kentucky

BLUE IS NOT THE SKIN COLOR IN WHICH I LIVE

Sometimes keeping a secret can hurt the ones you love and can result in hurting yourself. According to Webster’s Dictionary, a secret is being “faithful or cautious in keeping confidential matters confidential’. Elise Dolcher’s story is an example of when not to keep a secret.

I knew exactly what kind of mother I had. A stupid, arrogant mother who didn’t care about the color of my skin, didn’t care that I was born white and raised blue. Mother like daughter, she was blue too. Blue is such an extravagant color, one that is supposed to produce calm emotions. The sky is blue, many shades of blue; my mother and I are too.

Ring…ring…ring… “Colorado Abuse Center, Janie Hughes speaking, can I help you…hello…hello”.

I cried so softly I couldn’t tell, I couldn’t. I needed to tell her my story, maybe if I say it to myself I won’t be as uncomfortable, yeah, that’s it, I’ll just tell myself.

At age five I would hide in the cabinet closest to the stove. I don’t know why since my “father figure” loved the kitchen, that was where his beer was made. I would cuff my hands over my ears, press very tightly and make a soft whine to block out the shrill noises my mother made. She tried once to escape. I remember, she woke me from the worst dream. We snuck out of the house at 4 a.m. and slept underneath the bridge nearest to the park. I don’t know why we hid at the park my “father figure” loved. It took him four hours to realize we had left, and after he found us, Momma never tried to leave him again.

When I was eleven my mother got her first job. My father figure needed money to buy the things that made him happy and the things that made us miserable. While mother was gone to work he used me to release his anger. When she got home she would give me a bath, tell me everything would be okay, and then tuck me in. Life was hell. Mom never told anyone, I was never allowed to tell anyone. I never went to school, she taught me. She was afraid at the slightest chance that someone would notice my body and the color of my skin.

At age 16 I was the deepest shades of blue and black, and I thought that if I ran away in the dark he wouldn’t be able to see me. I didn’t want to leave my mother alone with him, but I did. I was young and hurt and very confused. Running away was easier than I thought. As I was running through the park I tripped over a crumbled paper that had a number. A number could help me and my mother both. I ran to the nearest telephone booth, and I had a quarter in my left pocket.

Ring…Ring…Ring…an old lady picked up the phone. “Colorado Abuse Center, this is Janie Hughes speaking, can I help you?”

I told Janie my story.

Now I am 25, and I live in Denver, Colorado. My mother lives in an apartment next to me. Her body is very weak and can’t support itself without a wheelchair. I sometimes blame myself for that. I should’ve run away earlier. Before I was a weak blue child, it wasn’t my fault. No one deserves to be hurt.

This is a prime example of when not to keep a secret. Secrets are only an abuse themselves. Secrets create stress and weakness. Aristotle once stated, “Anyone can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody’s power, that is not easy”. My whole life I blamed my mother. I blamed her for everything. I blamed her for my blue skin. The night I was running away when I reached down for the crumbled paper I realized that she didn’t know any better. That’s the way her father treated her, and that’s the kind of man she married. It wasn’t her fault, it was his. She didn’t make me blue, he did.

If you’re a victim, get help, tell someone. Don’t be afraid, there are people who know you’re out there and want to help you. Be like Elise, find your natural skin color.