Colors of the West

Red like the blood of the hands that fought mightily in battle. Orange like the color of the sky as the sun sets over the cotton fields. Yellow like the color of the soft fluffy fiber workers twist out of the bolls. Green like when my West African brothers and sisters are submerged in kola and then over-dyed with gara. Blue like the African continent. White like the courage and moral excellence of the artisans who created me. My origins begin in Africa’s first independent republic. The colors of my being are rooted in rich history. You must feel the power of hope and renewal when I am draped over the shoulders of whoever wears me. Constructed to be loose-fitting, protecting the wearer from the dust of the earth. The length of my body rests just below my wearer's kneecaps. I’ve traveled far from home to a foreign land. To a land with less liveliness. We traveled together, my brothers and sisters and I, looking forward to a brighter future. 

There’s a market, similar to the ones in the great capital of Monrovia, Liberia. We are picked from the bottom of a dark, cold, and raggedy box. Placed on bright pink mannequins, watching a new kind of wearer. There is a familiarity to this energy, like a distant ghost. On their shoulders we feel coldness, a dullness, void of warmth. We are roughly tossed around the rack. We hear them say, “$87 for this? We can find cheaper tie-dye cardigans at Michael’s.” They don’t appreciate us. 

I thought maybe if they could feel the laughter of the artisans who produced us, they would surely embrace us with open arms. Women who chose us when we existed as one solid color. They folded us in many different ways, anticipating new color patterns. We felt their passion for creativity as they measured powdered dye into bowls. In folded bundles we watched them prepare the boiling water for our baptism. It was a ritual, our homegoing, how gratifying.

As we were submerged into the water, a fire grew around us. We were burned and stripped by the caustic. The turning point in our rebirth. The artisans would then pour dye over our skeleton and rebunch us to then add more color dye. Sulfur was bound to our cotton fiber. Behold, I was no longer monochromatic. Designed onto me was a bright arrangement of spiral curves: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, white, and black. With one point spreading out, moving further away from its beginning point. As we lay on the moist earth, we felt the warmth of Africa.

  “Ohhh, this is nice! The colors are very nice. America will enjoy this.” They were proud to share us. Hopeful that others would embrace their artistry. They took us down to the creek’s edge, and we took our final dip. We were washed under the covering of harmonic melodies. The water was calm as if the land was saying goodbye. As we were hung to dry, it was the last time my brothers and sisters and I felt the heat of the Liberian sun.

  These new wearers don’t appreciate our artisans' hard labor. Do they not understand? We were beaten with wooden clubs, made to shine beautifully for their shoulders. Maybe they’re unable to see. Our colors represent a rich history. Meant to be worn proudly, hugging the intricate patterns of our identity. We were relocated to a Liberian boutique, rooted in optimism that our people would be admired for their gift. After days hanging between cowrie-shelled earrings and lappa wrap dresses, she found me. 

This wearer, unlike the others that put their stench on my being, smelled like sugar and creamy vanilla. Her pleasant aroma reminded me of the Monrovian women who packaged me away. Her shoulders felt creamy and soft on my fibers. We gazed upon each other; my coat never looked more beautiful on any other wearer. She caressed my sleeves and traced her fingertips along the swirls that hugged her hips. She appreciated my design. This wearer’s aura was loud. I knew she possessed the confidence and gracefulness to carry me home. I call her Kpalii, for she is a star.

When Kpalii brought me home, I was among many unique objects. They told me stories of their journeys. We spoke about our cultures and our lives before we came to America. The love they poured into me opened my heart. In her closet there were Nigerian head wraps, Gambian malans, Chinese silk fans, and T-shirts that read “This shade of Black really brings out the color of my soul.” Kpalii is indeed colorful; I love that about her. Years passed, and I noticed she would choose me less. I became buried between her Moncler coat and a Free People duster. This duster was made of linen. Its skeleton was rougher than mine. I noticed when my wearer pressed it out, the wrinkles would reappear every time she sat. Kpalii accidentally knocked it off the hanger; I saw its tag, “FP.” It glowered at me as if to say, “How dare she place me next to you.” How dare it judge me.

After a while the closet became too crowded for all of us. It became unrecognizable over the years. What was once a home for unique, vibrant patterns and foreign oddities became a home for trendy, chic, high-fashion statement pieces. The new objects she brought into our home always had some fancy label: Gucci, Chanel, Adidas, Ouftur, Dior, Moncler, Roberto Cavalli, Betsy Johnson, and various other names difficult to read. I began to feel small. What use would she have of me, a Liberian tie-dyed duster? I did not match her new style. 

I heard her complain about getting rid of old clothes she bought when she was younger. I knew she was changing, but I never thought she would dispense of me. My colors never faded like the other objects. When she placed me in the machine, I never reemerged with holes. My threads never came undone when she tossed me in her Telfar tote bag. When she pressed me, those tiresome wrinkles would quickly smooth. Why wasn’t I good enough?

It has been years since I felt her touch. I could still smell her scent of sugar and vanilla. One day as she was spring cleaning, Kpalii found me again. She picked me off the hanger and wrapped me around her shoulders. For the next three days she wore me. I was back! She paired me with new objects I had never met. We slept in a new car; I hadn’t known she had. Kpalii really is a big girl now. She was still confident with a loud aura but less naive. She was more carefree, and I loved it. I fit her even tighter than before. The thing about objects like me is that we embrace change. We embrace new ideas, new cultures, and new environments. Partly because we are forced to adapt to the West. Now, in my wearer's home, there is a balance between us all. We are all individual threads that form one star.