Color is integral to our stories.
DEAR BLOG READER: THIS STORY HAS BEEN COPIED FROM MEDIUM, AN ONLINE WRITING PLATFORM. THE HIGHLIGHTING IS FROM MEDIUM. Unfortunately, the links do not work.
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A reader responded to a recent story with this comment: “I wish niceness were colorblind.” I thought about her comment and wrote a follow-up piece.
I understand the reader’s sentiment. For much of American history, people selected winners and losers based on the color of their skin. Ridding ourselves of this bias seemed a form of progress.
But upon further reflection, and prodded by another reader, I wondered whether being colorblind makes sense. This led me to this analogical tale.
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Rebecca and I selected each kitchen item in the photo for its colors.
The white backsplash contrasts nicely with the grey-speckled granite countertop. The tiles’ teak grout augments the top’s porcelain flecks.
The framed picture’s cream road complements the backsplash. Its sage green countryside enhances the emerald flower leaves on the French butter dish.
When the butter dish opens, its bright yellow contents enrich the picture’s mustard matting and mango bicyclist shirt.
Color matters.
Color shadings are important.
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When we look at each kitchen feature, we see its complexion.
Pigmentation is part of the value of each.
To be colorblind makes no sense.
But we don’t see only color.
Each element has stories.
Sometimes these stories are connected to their colors.
Rebecca is a bicycling devotee. She found a print of Giuliana Lazzerini’s woodcutting The Race at London’s Tate Modern Museum’s bookshop. She loved the yellows and greens. They reminded her of fall and summer colors throughout our community’s Trout Run Bike Trail.
Sometimes not.
Rebecca loves the rider’s hunched focus. It embodies her approach to this sport. For this aspect, the rider’s shirt color is irrelevant.
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We’ve had the French Butter Dish for about a year. It’s ingenious. You tightly pack cold and softened butter sticks into the container on the right in the photo. It is placed over the left receptacle with an inch of salt water. This connection forms an airtight, oxygen-free vessel that keeps the butter fresh for about a month.
Unless you forget to replace the salt water every week. Something I did last week when Rebecca was on a weeklong biking trip.
When the butter morphed into the tinge of The Race’s matting.
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We value each kitchen component for its colors. We see different hues as complementary, not as competitive.
But color forms only part of their identities. It sometimes connects to their identity, sometimes not. The funky French Butter thingy works regardless of its outer clothing. Its character matters most.
Each has stories worth telling and hearing.
Our butter dish works for us because of its character and color.
Identity is never just one thing.
For a dish or a human.
Caring about someone or something requires seeing all parts of them.
