LIFE COACH PEARL: COLORISM PRISM
2025, a year that marked the passage of seven and a half decades. I profoundly understood colorism, traversing Southern red clay, sandy hillsides, and rich dark soil. One could find the word in the pages of a dusty old blue cloth-bound copy of Webster's Dictionary or by typing it into the Google app with its letters spelled out in primary colors except for the 'l,' which uses a secondary green. My life was a journey through shades of black and white, seeking wisdom. My colorism prism is a vibrant spectrum of many hues.
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1956. It was a golden sunny day on Washington Street, the main street through Vicksburg, Mississippi. Minority businesses were bayoneted to the "low end" of the street by segregation and its pale gray ghosts of the Civil War. Brown cobblestone sidewalks required careful steps, and our spirits shone brightly as my grandmother, a fair-skinned, jovial woman, and I entered the narrow, glass-front general store. A small six-year-old, I skipped a bit, then walked in to face a ruddy-hued woman in a frumpy print dress, Mrs. Abraham, the owner's wife. She, who appeared younger than Mama Lee, addressed her, calling her by her first name,
"Afternoon, Olivia, what do you need today?"
"I'm looking to find some union underwear, M's Abraham. Fall is coming on soon, and the department store up the street don't carry them."
Slowly wobbling from behind the counter, Mrs. Abraham patted a stack of garments a few feet away, "And who is this you have with you? Is this Roosevelt's girl?"
"This is my grandbaby. Roosevelt's baby girl."
Looking through the smudge of her horn-rimmed glasses, the lady spoke in a flat gray drawl. "Now, aren't you a pretty little thing?"
I preened, basking in the simplicity of childhood with my grandmother and proud of my long brown braids, which my big sister had plaited and pinned neatly over my ears.
I tilted my head slightly to one side, confused by her request, "Let me see your teeth."
Innocence shone brightly white as my smile as she peered closely into my mouth and remarked that my folks kept me well.
What is the color of slavery?
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1962. From a wood frame house with off-white asbestos siding built by the “cha'rman” of the deacon board and lovingly tended by the superintendent of the Sunday school, life appeared through rose-colored glasses. I guzzled down faith: work hard, do your best, for that is the way the Negro rises above. Their golden wisdom fell like seeds on warm, fertile soil from which I tilled lush green visions of success. A delicate tapestry with tensile strength, my every fiber craved perfection. In a bright red robe from the front row of the junior choir, I belted out, “This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.” Shades of the real world were an oblivion.
Sunday afternoon at age 12, my niece, 6, her perfectly round face incessantly chattering, and nephew, 7, the dapper one, crossed the "white" school campus, H. V. Cooper High, on the way to BTU. The blonde-colored brick building, built on the sinking sand of "separate but equal" racial dictum, overhung the chasm on the hilly terrain between my home and the hill on which Holly Grove Baptist Church stood. The meteoric blur of an old green sedan whizzed the valley past us with white teenagers hanging carelessly out of the windows. The piercing cry, "Nigger, nigger!", the revved-up engine, squealing tires, and boisterous laughter aimed to breach the shield around my spirit.
What is the color of innocence lost?
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1970. A warm, dusky-blue Thursday evening, May 15. The predominantly black, (then) Jackson State College air was filled with the pungent aroma of honeysuckle, excitement, and anticipation for the upcoming year-end celebrations. Overhead, a tense, uneasy air of impending harm hung.
Eleven days after Kent State, recent protests were not about the Vietnam War. This war raged against racial injustice in the Jim Crow South. The fear on my roommate's face, like that of a frightened animal, shouted that something untoward would happen.
At 19, in short, pink and white PJs, I slid between the cotton sheets of the squeaky twin bed in Alexander Hall. I needed sleep before the Genetics final at 7 AM. My med-school admission in Nashville was imminent. As my head hit the flattened pillow, I heard noises outside the window on the south side of the room overlooking JR Lynch Street, like popcorn popping.
Intent on scurrying to the window, my feet hit the cool, beige-tiled concrete floor as the drawn-closed curtain flashed back. Sudden danger crashed with a thud on the wall over my bed. Pulsing rapid fire echoed a warning. No Greek colors or step show played out on the hexagon-shaped promenade tonight.
My heart pounded as I crouched between the sink and the pale wooden closet across from my bed until the noise stopped. I unfolded in slow motion from my nearly fetal position, crept to the window, and drew back the heavy curtain. The radiating, silvery shatter of glass, a bullet hole in the upper left corner, riddled my sense of security. White men in dull-colored uniforms, their weapons the color of steel, marched away through a gray haze of smoke with its stifling stench. Outside lay Phillip, a kind soul, his fair body curled on the ground as his life oozed into a red pool on the green grass.
What are the colors of evil and hate?
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1983. Mortar, pestle, and beaker-like memorabilia lined the antebellum red brick walls of People's Drug Store. A tray embossed with a Magnolia, the state flower, the flag, and souvenirs of the South stood around the small room adjacent to the main store. This slightly chilly fall evening, Mr. Joe, the affable owner and pharmacist, invited a gathering of doctors. A mingled, gray-haired gentleman, he smiled and introduced me to the group for the first time since my return to Vicksburg from my medical training out of state. A flush crossed my caramel face, bathed in the stares from the sea of mostly stony white male faces and their well-coiffed wives.
My white silk dress, embossed with a small diamond pattern, was mother-approved. However, it still had subtle splits on the sides to avoid offending the river city's socialites. I greeted them with a gentle nod and cordial smile. The comfortable caress of my dress reminded me of my dream the year before.
The vision catapulted me to the seat where I watched the Temptations concert during my sophomore year at Jackson State. I sat three rows from the floor in firm wood and metal seating of the dome-shaped Mississippi Colosseum in Jackson. An ocean of white male faces in long white coats listened intently to the speaker on stage, off to my right. I marveled at the occasional female face or the darted face of color. The speaker, his words muffled and distant, made a climactic point, and everyone rose to their feet in applause. Profound belonging lifted me from my seat, and I applauded the unknown. I felt one of the crowd.
Thomas Wolfe wrote, "You Can't Go Home Again." Tonight, uncertainty shrouded me, a caramel-colored female doctor in a white dress. The sheen of shiny, diamond threads welcomed me home, leaving promise and dimly veiled questions.
What is the color of destiny?
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2018. The blue-gray blur of over a decade and a half, I labored as the prophet not accepted in my hometown. Now 68, I picked up the receiver on the corner of my red pine desk to hear the CEO of Merit Hospital in Canton say everyone was waiting for me. A diverse crowd of beaming faces poured from the community room doorway. The sudden realization of the retirement celebration washed over me like a wave, filling me with a proud sense of the moment.
R&B tunes oozed from the small black boombox in the back of the large room. Bright sun poured through windows stretched across the wall before me, reflecting warmth in the faces of all shapes, sizes, and hues that circled it. Navy scrubs for RNs, green for the surgery crew, radiology techs in gray, and the maintenance crew stood and clapped wildly as I entered. The fatty odor of chicken drumettes and Swedish meatballs, mixed with revelry, filled the space. Food service staff, heads covered with white nets, tended steaming hot trays, multi-colored veggies, shiny clear plastic ware, and red fruit punch. The enormous white sheet cake read Happy Retirement, Doctor, in red script, my signature color.
In an authoritative voice and upright posture, the CEO announced recognition and gratitude for service to women's healthcare from the hospital staff. Each department, like loyal soldiers, presented tokens of esteem. Surgery techs in protective shoe booties presented a spa gift card, their laughter confirming I deserved it. A fine, red marble pen from Human Resources, monogrammed, was a testament to my unique cursive script. Nurses joked that they could read my handwriting. I opened each box and brightly colored bag and read the cards aloud. Tens of signatures scribbled their deep appreciation inside my chest, reminding me of our unique trust.
I held the six-inch-tall Lennox crystal in my seasoned surgeon's hands, its weight a tangible symbol of four decades. Light shone through it, clear like cool water to a diabetic woman without money for a doctor. The significance of this milestone pounded inside me like a carotid pulse under my fingertips. Like this crystal, my career was beautiful, formed over time through pressure, and now each facet reflected a testament to years of service.
A kaleidoscope refracted through delicate etching in pink, white, and tan like the countless tiny humans, expected or not, wanted or not, still vigorous unless not, who spent the first squalling breaths of life in my hands. Glints of yellow sparked like the joy of my gift. Facets of blue marked the painful loss of stillbirth or the burden of ostracization by white men in long white coats.
I ran my fingers across the smooth, curved surface as if soothing away the years of sleepless nights in crumpled scrub suits, of athletic shoes that used to be white, now stained with the maladies of the least of these: women who often had the least resources but frequently suffered the most severe illness. Grasping this precious symbol, my gratitude poured out to the onlooking faces of human kindness.
A gold-rimmed, pearlized clock face stood high in the crystal column, unmarred by time, standing in infinity. Dainty black Roman numerals measured an empire of survival: a woman, a black, a doctor. Thin dark hands pointed to the moment, memorializing so many before, as the tiniest hand ticked away in a muted sound, the anointed career.
The dark mahogany pedestal, its hue just deeper than my skin, decried a strong foundation like the evergreen of its source. On countless nights lit by a silvery moon, I dragged exhausted from the hospital or comforted the spirit of the drained registered nurse in the delivery suite at the end of her second 12-hour shift. Perseverance carved out my name and calling, MD, on the rectangular plaque. My mantra stood, emblazoned by the nursing staff in the golden metal: watch, fight, and pray. Joy reflected through each facet of the monumental crystal. Its prism illuminated a path hewn by purpose despite adversity, not visible through rose-colored glasses. Humility choked away my usual gregarious tongue. Through a stilled silence, I uttered, Thank you.
What is the color of respect?
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2025 revisited. I sank into the open-space living room's bronze leather chair, my legs outstretched on the ottoman. The brilliant red color of my nails reminded me of life. Peace spread with a gleam across my face as the year marked 75 years of my temporary assignment on the blue planet. I exhaled a healthy gratitude.
What is the color of purpose, well lived?