The Colors of My Room

A personal essay by Matt Easton

Painting my childhood room rainbow said a lot more about me than I knew at the time.

I still remember dad’s face when I told him the color I chose for my room. Are you sure you don’t want a bright blue, or a dark red? he responded, trying to lead me in another direction. No, I answered firmly. I knew what I wanted.

I was only eight years old when I got my first room, too young to know what implications came with wanting to paint my walls rainbow. After all, dad told me I could choose my favorite color, and my favorite was all the colors. Each one spoke to me in a special way; it was like asking me to pick my favorite stuffed animal or put on my favorite Disney movie.

 I was also too young to know that it was no small endeavor for my mom to convince my dad to paint my room according to my wishes. He gave each wall a different color, but he mixed them up so they didn’t follow ROY G BIV. First red, then blue, then yellow, then green, last purple, he decided. The colors weren’t in the order I wanted, but I didn’t ask him to fix it. I knew he had been intentional in his choice. I didn’t know why.

When the paint finally dried, I danced. I twirled and jumped and flew around the walls, christening each one with a kiss as though their existence made my existence all the more true. In my room, I could finally do exactly as I pleased. I had space to sing, and to cry, and to create, where walls could be rainbow and I could be, too.

It wasn’t the same for me outside of those walls.

A New Coat of Paint
In seventh grade, Santa brought me the sweatpants I’d been coveting all year: bright red joggers from Hollister. They were flashy, and fierce, and full of vivacity. I wore them to the first day back from winter vacation, and the boy behind me at lunch told me they looked like his sister’s—did I get them in the women’s section?

I never wore them again.

At fourteen, I attended a leadership camp in Chewelah, Washington. It was the first time I’d been away from home on my own, but the mountain air tasted familiar. I was surrounded by towering pines and gentle moss, a quiet forest emanating enough green to challenge the verde of my wall at home. I liked it there.

On the fourth night, a boy in my cabin began complaining about sharing the space with me. I don’t feel comfortable around this fag, he said. I had never been called that before—what did it mean? Was it code for snoring? Did I smell? Did I chew open-mouthed or tell stupid jokes?

I had to look it up on my phone. Apparently, it’s a name for cigarettes in Australia. I had a feeling that wasn’t what he was referring to. Suddenly, I felt very aware and very embarrassed. What had I done wrong?

 I wished I was back in my room.

I repainted my walls when I was sixteen. Mom told me a girl was going to wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me to a dance, and I was embarrassed of what she’d think when she would see my room. That same day, I went to Home Depot and picked out a new color. I chose Galapagos Turquoise. It seemed the perfect balance between soft and strong, unique and ubiquitous, myself and masculine. The color made it feel like I was falling into the ocean, and I liked that. It gave me room to float.

I think the girl who asked me out liked it too. We went to the Halloween dance together. I dressed up as a pirate.

Coming Out of My Room
It wasn't until college that I came out to my parents. It was an achromatic day in March, caked with crusty snow and brown grass, dull and dank and exactly as you’d imagine a March day to be. It reminded me of many subdued colors in my life—the grays and beiges of church pews, and ironing boards, and feigning interest in football. I’m not sure what color I’d give to my anxiety, however—some days it’s pale-blue, like the back of a whale alone in the ocean. Other days it’s red, like blood.

It was this sanguine-red anxiety that drove me to my parent’s feet that day in March. I’d been constricted far too long by secrets and pressures and dating, by worry and worth and God, by boys in lunch lines and campers at Chewelah and Galapagos Turquoise. I just wanted to breathe. I just wanted to be me.

I think I’m gay, I told them.

That night, I slept in my old room. Mom prepared the bed, kissing me on the head and reminding me to pray. I found it hard to talk to God, so instead I counted the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. One, two, three, four. My eye wandered to the edges where the ceiling meets the wall. The turquoise was flaking away, revealing bits of red and yellow and green and blue and purple, peeking out and whispering hello. I looked at them in order: ROY G BIV. I smiled.

Shades of Gay
Coming out and into my own hasn’t been as simple as putting up a fresh coat of paint. I didn’t wake up the next day ready to march in a parade or declare my sexuality to the world; it’s taken time. It’s taking time. I’m learning to change where I put my pride, and it is slow, but it is good. Gray is not the color for a dreamer, and beige is not the color for a soul; for the first time in a long time, I’m letting myself be a bit more rainbow.

Take, for example, how six months ago I would’ve stayed quiet as a peer made a homophobic comment; yesterday I didn’t. I’m still not ready to talk to my aunts and uncles about my sexuality, but for the first time I’ve written about it (in this very essay). I’m gradually finding myself just as I gradually lost myself, and for some reason it feels right. It feels balanced.

Today, I reach into my closet to pick my clothes for the day. Black sweater or brown jacket? I opt for my green button-up instead, the ones with stripes of red and blue; it is well-worn; it is comfortable. It looks like something I would’ve worn when I was eight.