Brenda Nazario - My Favorite Color is Red
My favorite color is red,
And yet I’m told pink suits me better.
Red is too much like you, I’m told:
Too stubborn, too brittle, too bold, too difficult, far past her peak
And yet I still love red.
I love the red of the pomegranates you peel,
I love the red of the pepper pastes you use when cooking,
I love the red of your red leather jacket,
I love the red of your blouse from the early 2000s,
I love the red of your silk stiletto boots.
My favorite color is red.
You wake at four am just to begin to set those sparklers, those little hats,
those candied fruits, those posters and streamers you tape to your precious TV
Those treats in which you spend what's rightfully yours
after hours of scrubbing and dusting for others,
all for someone who never asked of it.
And so I let you dress me in pink.
My favorite color is red.
The same red as those silk stiletto boots you keep under your bed frame,
with your red leather jacket and red early 2000s-style blouse,
all in that clear plastic box.
As you dust and sweep,
and organize and toss,
you cradle that box gently, and once its been put back, your eye catches glimpses onto the threads of the items inside.
The fabrics have begun to tear
And those threads have begun to run loose
So you go out the next day and make sure to buy me a pink skirt.
My favorite color is red,
but your sister once told you it's too promiscuous.
You change into some old pink sweater before you bid goodbye to her
and you couldn’t bear to see red again.
Woman of sea foam and bright mango trees, these northwest soils were never made for you. The earth here is too cold in January, and these beaches never carried you gently. The mountains here crumble and wither so that you may not wish to see those morning glory vines crawl up their sides like you used to.
One day I hope to take the roots of you and settle them back into those brick and wire walls you grew up in.
When your hands are dried like prunes in the sun and your hairs shine gray like your mother’s, I hope I can be the one to brush them through.
My favorite color is red,
But you watered it down to pink.
I’m not supposed to be you, but rather the best of you.
Take after your long deep dark hair, but never its waves
Take after your hips that become valleys, but never your breasts
Take after your passion, but never your tongue.
Take after your love, but never your temper
To take after you, but only the caramel and never the salt.
My favorite color is red.
You are the red of your mangoes,
the red of your angel’s trumpet flowers
the red of your fresh chili peppers,
the red of your school uniform when you were a girl,
the same uniform you wore the day before you left.
I have learned to see you in red.
Sit down at last woman of south, daughter of sea
Lay your pinks to rest, I will love red for the both of us.