"If Walls Could Talk"

The only constant in my repetitious life was my bluish-green friend; to clarify, my reddish-brown friend turned bluish-green friend. I admired the way she held her frame erect, her face unapologetically unsmiling, her torch forcefully pointed to the heavens. Our friendship endured countless years in quiet understanding, me always talking and her always listening. They named me “Wall,” her “Liberty,” and the space between us “Window.” But, their names and faces frequently changed.

When she was reddish-brown, I was red. It was during this time that a King sang to the masses that it was time to proclaim the “declaration of freedom real; to reach back to the origins of our nation when our message of equality electrified an unfree world, and reaffirm democracy by deeds as bold and daring as the issuance of the Emancipation Proclamation.” They listened and hoped; I listened and already knew.

“Why is my skin a different color?” the downtrodden boy asked, using his nail to pick at my paint.

“Because mine is a different color too, my love,” the woman offered, both confidence and desperation fighting for control of her voice.

“Billy said that it’s because we’re dirty, but I told him that I take a bath every single night.”

“You are clean and pure and loved, my dear.” A kiss to the forehead, a kiss to each cheek.

The little boy was consoled. For now. She wasn’t. He would forget. For now. She didn’t. He ran off to bed. She couldn’t.

She spent the next few rotations of the clock staring out Window at Liberty. The temperature didn’t fluctuate but she still sniffled sporadically, wiping at her face. When the man got home, she straightened her posture and heated his food, the nightly dance shared between husband and wife.

“The kids are being mean again. Or, actually, I can’t be certain it was even kids this time,” she said.

“Sixty hours a week, so we can live like this,” he said, gesturing toward me, “and our children can be treated like this.” He kissed the top of her head, “And, she just stands there with her empty promises.”

When her brown started to fade to blue, I was white. It was during this time that, for days, I couldn’t see her facade- only gray. When it lifted, a man promised, “This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time.” They listened and hoped; I listened and knew.

“Why is my skin a different color?” the downtrodden boy asked, using his nail to pick at my paint.

“Because mine is a different color too, my love,” the woman offered, both confidence and desperation fighting for control of her voice.

“Billy said that it’s because we’re dirty, but I told him that I take a bath every single night.”

“You are clean and pure and loved, my dear.” A kiss to the forehead, a kiss to each cheek.

The little boy was consoled. For now. She wasn’t. He would forget. For now. She didn’t. He ran off to bed. She couldn’t.

She spent the next few rotations of the clock staring out Window at Liberty. The temperature didn’t fluctuate but she still sniffled sporadically, wiping at her face. When the man got home, she straightened her posture and heated his food, the nightly dance shared between husband and wife.

“The kids are being mean again. Or, actually, I can’t be certain it was even kids this time,” she said.

“Sixty hours a week, so we can live like this,” he said, gesturing toward me, “and our children can be treated like this.” He kissed the top of her head, “And, she just stands there with her empty promises.”

Today she is various shades of cyan, and I am faded blue. The man on Television says, “Now, instead of ‘catch and release,’ we have ‘detain and remove.’ It’s called ‘detain and remove.’ Doesn’t that sound better? One of the biggest loopholes we closed was asylum fraud. Under the old, broken system, if you merely requested asylum, you were released into the country. The most ridiculous thing anyone has ever seen. And we were taking in some people that you didn’t want to have in your country.” They listened. There wasn’t hope. I listened. I knew.

“Why is my skin a different color?” the downtrodden boy asked, using his nail to pick at my paint.

“Because mine is a different color too, my love,” the woman offered, both confidence and desperation fighting for control of her voice.

“Billy said that it’s because we’re dirty, but I told him that I take a bath every single night.”

“You are clean and pure and loved, my dear.” A kiss to the forehead, a kiss to each cheek.

The little boy was consoled. For now. She wasn’t. He would forget. For now. She didn’t. He ran off to bed. She couldn’t.

She spent the next few rotations of the clock staring out Window at Liberty. The temperature didn’t fluctuate but she still sniffled sporadically, wiping at her face. When the man got home, she straightened her posture and heated his food, the nightly dance shared between husband and wife.

“The kids are being mean again. Or, actually, I can’t be certain it was even kids this time,” she said.

“Sixty hours a week, so we can live like this,” he said, gesturing toward me, “and our children can be treated like this.” He kissed the top of her head, “And, she just stands there with her empty promises.”

If walls could talk. If only she could talk.