IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN.....OR OLIVE

My mother phoned last week to let me know how much she had enjoyed a recent visit with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "Caitlin was wearing a hot pink cardigan and she looked so beautiful," Mom gushed.

My mother's closet is organized by color. Each outfit has its own color-coordinated hanger.

Mom continued her one-sided conversation without pausing. "I asked her if she knew what her colors were, but she didn't. I knew the moment Cristin was born that she was a "Summer" but I'm not sure about Caitlin. I told her that her Aunt Rebecca needs to send her some color swatches."

My sister wrote about painting her house in a November, 1983 letter: "But I want to repaint the entry---don't like the leaf green in there now. I'll go for apricot or peach instead." Only someone in my family would know that there is a difference between the colors apricot and peach.

At one point during the phone call I casually mentioned that I was wearing a lot of black. I might as well have told my mother that I had been lying out in the sun every day for months, slathered in Johnson's baby oil.

"You do not look good in black," she said in a voice that let me know I was the stupidest person on earth.

I give Mom props for being diplomatic at my wedding. I know she thought my champagne-colored dress and yellow-flowered wreath were very unflattering colors on me. Two weeks before the wedding she sent money for a manicure and this advice about nail polish: "Even if you choose a pale pink, be sure it is a warm tone. With your coloring, wouldn't a coral be pretty? At any rate, you don't want any blue in the formula."

She immediately launched into a tirade that sounded a lot like Vice President Joe Biden lecturing the public on how to avoid the deadly swine flu: I would not go anywhere in confined spaces. I would not ride the subway. I would not get on an airplane. I would not wear black with olive-colored skin.

"It's just so easy," I said, a little defensively, even though I know she could care less about practicality. "The girls were not sure it was you when they saw earlier pictures, so keep that in mind," Mom said. I wasn't sure what she meant and I didn't want to ask. Questioning Mom is like questioning her credentials.

Years ago my mother purchased a red-orange hutch from a model home sale. It was a personal favorite of hers. This letter to my sister is a typical example of Mom bequeathing something to her grandchildren. For the last 25 years she has refused to own anything that is not "in my colors." (Feb. 1987)

For as long as I can remember my mother has been obsessed with color. Years before it became popular to personalize colors based on the seasons, she carried in her purse a collection of color chips that she got from the paint store. The samples were hooked together at one end with a brad and opened up like a little Chinese fan. Before she made any purchase---towels, sheets, dishes, furniture or clothes---she would spread those paint chips out and hold them next to the item. Nothing was taken off a hanger or removed from a store's shelf until it passed the Ameritone color test.

If you ask my mother today what I was good at as a child, I have no doubt she would say, "Kathleen could tell the difference between magenta and pink when she was only two years old." I used to think I was born precocious. But now I'm sure Mom used that fan-shaped color wheel like a deck of flash cards to drill me on my colors so I could spare her any future embarrassment.

When I was in 8th grade I had a 'D' in Science on the first report card. At the Parent-Teacher Conference my mother asked what subjects we would be studying next. When Mr. Phend said ' prisms,' she assured my very skeptical teacher that I would have no trouble passing the course. "Kathleen is very good with colors," she told him. Mr. Phend was so shocked that I raised my average to a "B" that he even initialed the report card, just in case my parents questioned the grade.

Not surprising, the first word I learned to say was a color word---yellow. (Or yeh-yo, as I pronounced it for more years than I care to admit.) I loved the color yellow. Mom even indulged me on my third birthday with "The Yellow Party." Everything at the party was yellow---the tablecloth, plates and paper cups. Everything except my party dress. I was not allowed to wear yellow, birthday or no birthday.

Mom dubbed my third birthday party THE YELLOW PARTY. On my birthday she always had my second cousin Cheryl sit to my right, in the honored guest position. My best friend and next-door neighbor Robin always sat to my left.

About the same time I was expressing my preference for the color yellow, I was taught that while yellow is "very pretty," I must learn to enjoy it from a distance. I must NEVER EVER wear anything yellow. "You have olive skin," my mother explained to me with the same tone of voice that she used to warn me not to talk to strangers. "You cannot put the color yellow near your skin."

I remember examining the skin on my arm for the very first time and trying to understand what she was saying. Olives were a slippery black food that I stuck on the ends of my wiggling fingers before popping them one by one into my mouth. Was there a connection between what I ate and the color of my skin? My mother must have sensed my confusion. "Your skin is the same color as your Aunt Judy's," she said, trying to reassure me.

Comparing me in any way to my father's younger sister only caused me more distress. "Don't ever go anywhere alone with your Aunt Judith," I was cautioned my whole life.

My dad's half-sister has been the family's problem-child for as long as I can remember. When I first heard Cary Grant utter the famous line, 'Judy, Judy, Judy,' I was sure that he too must be trying to fix a mess created by my irresponsible aunt.

When I was seven years old I remember standing in a dressing room in a Broadway department store with my mother and sister. Mom wanted to buy us new dresses for Easter. Becky and I were posed in front of the mirror, silently gazing at ourselves in identical outfits. We might as well have been staring into one of those crazy, distorted amusement park mirrors. We were so different in so many ways that just seeing ourselves dressed like twins looked bizarre.

I could tell that Mom really wanted to buy those dresses. She was pleased with everything---the matching two-tone gloves, the little white drawstring purses, and more importantly the price. But she kept standing over me with the Ameritone color samples fanned-out above my shoulder and shaking her head. "I just don't like this navy blue on you," she said. "It's too dark for your olive skin."

Easter Sunday, 1960. After our family's egg hunt we always dressed-up and visited my Jewish great-grandmother.

I didn't say a word. I wasn't raised so much with the philosophy of "children should be seen and not heard," as the admonition to "shut up and do as you are told." Sharing my opinion was never really an option. I remember being a little hopeful about the prospect of getting a new dress, but any excitement was dulled by the fact that my sister was getting the exact same outfit too. After all, I wore her hand-me-downs. I would be wearing this dress for a long, long time, no matter how fast I grew.

Finally Mom came to a reluctant compromise. "The trim on this dress is a true winter white," she declared. "And because the collar is white and it is near your face, I think it will be okay for you to wear it."

My sister's birthday party, October 1962. I am standing between my sister and my best friend Robin.

I did wear that navy blue dress for a long time. Not just for Easter, but for birthday parties and even at the LA County Fair. And after I grew out of it I inherited the same navy blue dress from my sister, which I wore to school for many more months.


But I don't think there was one time that I put that dress on that I didn't think about my skin color. I never wore that dress without worrying that maybe not everyone else would notice that the color white was near my face. On those days I secretly hoped that my complexion didn't look quite as olive and that my dress didn't look quite as navy blue as I knew they really were.

1960 Los Angeles County Fair, Pomona, California.

copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich