Paint the Walls Red
Shalise S. Ayomloo The bi-colored rose vines smile on their vigorous canes, interlaced to disguise a rusted metal gate. My eyes are on the pedals, pure white on the inside and deep red on the edges, looking revived under the glowing touch of morning dew. My brain is fighting this image of tranquility, ordering my hands to open the gate, to hear the cracking sound of the hinge. Just like those times in the history class, when my mind couldn’t reconcile the idea of Andrew Jackson as a hero with the man who removed the Indians from their ancestral homeland. I recall pressing my lips firmly against each other, so that no sound would betray my skeptical thoughts. A hero I believed, would unite the Americans as hyphenated as we were- as divided as we are. Red Americans, White Americans, Black Americans, Southern Americans, Northern Americans, rich Americans, poor Americans, Republican Americans, Liberal Americans, disabled Americans, fill-in-the-blanks Americans. Now I don’t believe anymore, in retaliation for believing and not doing anything. So I look at the roses, the beautiful Osiria flowers with their red and white pedals, and without sparing a second thought for the truth they hide, I walk briskly to my room to paint the walls red. |
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About the Author: Shalise Ayromloo is an Economics PhD candidate at University of Illinois at Chicago. She starts her day with a phone call to her grandma and a cup of nonfat caramel macchiato. Writing poetry is not just a hobby for her. It's who she is underneath the layers of nerdiness she proudly wears every day. Her poetry has been published in Silver Apples Magazine.