"Color is again"

Trans voices, but not about Trump's america

mk’s note: this poem was submitted for the open call by the truly awesome Inkwyrmling, and it doesn’t touch on Trumpism, but is about the intersection of disability and queerness, and I thought it would be a welcome break from political existential dread <3

In college, there was only one class I quit. Only one. It was a script writing class. On the first day, the first homework assignment was to write and perform a short soliloquy on a number of indescribable things due the next day. On that list were these two words.

Describe color.

I, immediately after the class was done, walked up to the professor and asked her for an alternate or excuse to that specific prompt due to my disability.

She said no. 

I told her that I am colorblind and that she had already received my accommodation request forms, that this was on there.

She said that she was a visiting professor and didn't care.

I left and immediately changed courses, sending an email to the disability office for disability-based discrimination. I never heard the fall out from that situation. 

But I chewed on that soliloquy for months. 

And here it is. 

Color is indescribable. We don't even know if everyone's red is the same red. Actually, that's a lie. We know that there are people who don't. 

Color is the sound of everyone asking again "Wait are these the same to you?"

Color is the feeling of raising my hand again because I yet again cannot read a line graph.

Color is the hatred of nearly all maps and graphs.

Color is the taste of someone else's spit in my mouth again after hockey checking my own team because all the jerseys look the same.

Color is the harsh sun pounding onto my back again because black clothes are the only safe ones to wear.

Color is the words "What shape? What texture? What label?" coming out of my mouth over and over again.

Color is the fear when I am screamed at again for bringing the wrong bottle to my Scoutmaster.

Color is being told again that I shouldn't be able to drive because of stoplights.

Color is knowing that red is always the darkest and at the top of stoplights.

Color is the happiness of seeing shapes again on the tokens of Splendor at board game club

Color is the loneliness of sitting out again when every one else wants to play Set. 

Color is the touch of a 1/16-inch contact lens drying my eye out again.

Color is the disappointment when the new lens didn't work again.

Color is the memory from three days ago when I made the exact same explanation again.

Color is the pain in my vocal cords after I scream to the military recruiter again to stop harassing me and that I don't have the curable type.

Color is the feeling of hopelessness when the YouTube thumbnail tool says again that I need a stronger hue.

Color is the stickiness of ink on my hands again, instead of the gooey wetness of oil paints.

Color is skipping a quarter of every art class I take.

Color is why my art is less striking than others'.

Color is screwing up the pride flags again.

Color is the texture of my keyboard as I look at the vexilology subreddit again for a symbol-based nonbinary flag.

Color is my friends telling me that the flags I found have ugly colors.

Color is a lesbian screaming at me for being fake.

Color is that same person apologizing.

Color is me crying anyway.

Color is the fury that burns in me as I write this!

Color is the indignation that radiates as I scream this!

Color is the disgust I feel for that professor every time I think of her.

Color is the interpretation wavelengths of light using cones.

Color is my cones NOT existing or functioning!

Color is this soliloquy that has wormed around in my mind for a fifth of my life!

Color is people forgetting my disability.

Color is again.

Color is me fucking up.

Color is part of my trauma.

I hate color.