My Red and Your Red by Jenna Ronnie Xue (15, Pennsylvania)

I came from a land of swirling, colorful paintbrush strokes 
From smooth, grass fields like vast, green carpets rolled out over the
Earth From the soft, gentle twang of our flowing music, our beautiful language
From dense, diverse forests, soaring mountains, and roaring rivers 

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Even before we moved from our land 
My mama proudly told me, bragged to me 
How we had 5,000 years of history compared to their primitive, mere 200
How our people, our culture, transcended time and space 
Wove in between the threads of the world 
And that I shared our blood

And I was proud of it, proud of all of it 
Proud that I had been created by those same paintbrush strokes 
That my mother, and countless others before her, had been 
That I was from the land of bright scarlet red 
Speckled with the sparkle of golden stars 

​​When we came here, it didn’t take me long to discover the white pool in our backyard
It was a strange thing, a different thing from anything I’d ever seen I approached it
tentatively, cautiously 
But also curiously, hopefully, excitedly

As I got closer to the pool of white water 
I heard whispers of a language I didn’t understand 
A sharp, staccato tongue with vibrato slangs and jokes 
Strange music in the distance, the stinging beats of drums 
​The whoop and holler of people, with the whistles of the referee mingling in The
savory smells of freshly cooked food, the sugary sweetness of tarts and cakes The
crash of thunder, the flickering screens of movies 
And as I got closer…and closer…just a couple steps closer 
Something fluctuated in the pool 
It wasn’t only white anymore 
Other colors ebbed and flowed in between the waves of white 
There was red! 
Just like the red from my homeland! 
But there was also a bit of blue 
A magnificent, royal blue
And countless others too 
A rainbow and that flowed and changed 
Like an opal, changing with each shift in perspective I got 

​As I stood at the edge of that pool, some of the voices cursed at me
But they were only the tiniest of dark spots 
Amidst the sea of welcome that awaited me 
I heard screams of joy as I approached 
Encouraging shouts and beckoning calls 
I could have sworn I saw hands from within the water
Reaching out to take mine 
To help me into the pool 
And show me what lay in those fascinating depths 

​But Mama and Baba warned me 
They said there would be…temptations 
I didn’t know that they would come in the form of this pool The strange, but
captivating other world that was just underneath its surface 

So I very carefully 
Very slowly 
Stuck one finger 
A single finger 
Into the water 
It was beautifully warm and a hostile cold all at once 

​But the satisfying warmth overpowered the frigid discomfort
​I submerged my whole hand 
It felt amazing 
Weird, but truly amazing 

When I took my hand out of the water 
It was stained white like its waves 
Like a glove I had slipped over my fingers 
Only this? 
It felt like it was a part of me now 
And I felt happy 
I felt almost as if 
I was home 

​I ran back home and showed my people, my family 
I showed them my hand 
I told them the sounds I heard 
The sights I saw
The colors that evanesced in the pool amongst the white 
The smells of the food, the taste of the air 
The thunderous, powerful bang of the music 
I reached out and took Mama and Baba’s hands 
About to guide them to the pool in our backyard 
I wanted to show them what I saw 
Let them experience what I had 
And maybe 
Just maybe 
They would feel at home, too 

​​But my people turned around 
Seizing my hand and staring at it instead 
“No! What have you done?” they shouted 
I was confused 
I wasn’t sure what I had done 

“You’ve become whitewashed!” they panicked in a frenzy
They grabbed my now-pale hand 
Rubbed it over and over and over with their own 
Some of their color, my color 
Bled back into my skin 
But the whiteness was still there 
It had left its mark on me 
And they were angry 

“Stay away from there” 
​“Those are not your people” 
“You’re forgetting your culture” 
“You’re forgetting who you are” 

​“Don’t 
Become 
Whitewashed” 

Whitewashed 
What did it mean 
To be whitewashed? 

​Why did the fact that I touched the white mean that 
I was giving up the intricate, careful paintbrush strokes that made up my old home?
Why did the fact that I liked the blue of the new land meant that I was wiping away
the shimmer of the golden stars from where I came?
Why couldn’t the bright scarlet of my people’s blood and our land
Coexist with the deep, rich crimson of America? 
In the end aren’t 
My red and your red 
Both the same color 
Just in a slightly different shade? 

​Why can’t I have 
Both my red 
And your red?