The Colors of the Rain

by R. L. Toalson

  its thick fog, me and Greg

  made a deal before we came here

  not to talk or think about any of that.

  Boys. Aunt Bee is standing on the porch,

  one hand on her hip. Her hair is more

  gray than black now, but she is still

  pretty. Time to eat.

  Me and Greg race back inside,

  since we’re both starving, and there’s

  not room enough at the table for us all,

  so Gran lets us sit in the

  living room instead.

  It’s the best Christmas lunch

  I think I’ve ever had.

  We open our gifts, new art supplies

  for me, some books for Greg,

  and stacks of violin music sheets

  for Charlie, who has gotten good

  without us even noticing.

  After we’ve cleaned up the paper,

  Gran pulls out her violin

  and Aunt Bee sits at the piano

  and Granddad picks up his old guitar,

  and we sit around the tree

  singing Christmas songs.

  Aunt Bee’s clear sweet voice meets

  Mr. Langley’s deep one that

  can’t hold a tune at all.

  Me and Greg and Charlie

  laugh to hear it,

  but that doesn’t stop him.

  We sing until the sun is gone

  and the tree lights make our

  faces glow.

  And then we eat pie

  and cobbler and fudge

  until our bellies ache.

  ROAD

  The road is foggier on our way home,

  but, for some reason, the world

  doesn’t feel so foggy anymore.

  I guess it doesn’t really matter as much

  what the future might be hiding,

  since I have today.

  We drive past the curve where

  my daddy’s car flipped off the road,

  and I don’t even close my eyes.

  It’s the first time I’ve watched it pass

  since the night my daddy died.

  SPRING 1973

  MAMA

  Today me and Greg

  are graduating from

  elementary school.

  It feels like a gigantic step,

  going to a brand-new school

  where there will be no Aunt Bee

  or Mr. Langley. It feels a little scary,

  if I’m honest.

  We sit up on a stage with

  all the other fifth graders,

  who probably feel excited and

  scared at the same time, just like me.

  The lights blur the audience,

  but I know who’s there.

  Gran. Granddad.

  Charlie. Mr. Langley.

  And Mama.

  She showed up right before

  me and Greg had to get onstage.

  I didn’t know if she would come,

  but she had to watch her boy

  graduate, she said. She hugged me

  close and kissed the top of my head.

  I’m so proud of you, she said.

  She smelled like cigarette smoke.

  Greg looked away, but not before

  I saw the water in his eyes.

  Three months ago his mama

  was moved to a home where

  nurses can take care of her all the time.

  He still gets really sad about it.

  He misses her a bunch, especially

  on days like today.

  NAME

  Greg sits two rows in front of me.

  I listen to all the names called,

  and when it’s Greg’s, I let out a whoop.

  Someone in the audience does, too.

  Greg is grinning when he

  shakes Aunt Bee’s hand and she

  gives him the piece of paper that

  says he has finished his time at

  River Oaks Elementary.

  Finally, it’s my turn,

  and I hear more whoops,

  and Aunt Bee hugs me tight

  and kisses my forehead,

  just like Mama did, except

  Aunt Bee smells like oranges and coconut.

  Then she hands me my piece of paper.

  I take it back to my seat and

  spread it on my lap.

  John Paul Sanders.

  It was my daddy’s name.

  But it’s my name, too,

  and I am the one

  left to carry it

  into the future.

  WALL

  When it’s all over and

  most of the people have

  disappeared from the auditorium,

  Mr. Langley takes us back

  to the building I painted with him.

  We finished our walls

  four weeks ago.

  He leads us all to the wall

  we painted together.

  Everyone stands there, staring.

  Aunt Bee’s eyes fill and then

  empty down the sides of her face.

  Gran’s mouth is open. Mama says,

  Oh my God, over and over, and then,

  It’s absolutely beautiful.

  It’s Gran and Granddad’s living room,

  except it’s wider, with more chairs,

  enough for all the ones who’ve left us, too.

  The forms don’t have faces,

  but we all know who they are.

  There is no Christmas tree,

  but there is light shining on all the faces,

  so they look like they are not quite

  in this world but halfway in another,

  the one Gran’s preacher used to talk about,

  where no one ever dies and the sun

  always shines and the mistakes

  of the past are nothing more than

  forgotten memories.

  Mr. Langley smiles at me,

  his hand squeezing my shoulder.

  It was Paulie’s idea, he says.

  We let them stand there, staring,

  taking it all in, imagining the place,

  until someone’s stomach grumbles

  and someone else laughs, and then

  we’re all turning together toward the cars,

  the last ones in the parking lot.

  GOODBYE

  I let Mama hold my hand

  all the way to the car.

  When we get there,

  she kisses my cheek and

  holds me tight again.

  I love you, she says.

  Her voice crumbles in the

  middle of the words.

  So much.

  I love you, too, I say,

  since I really, really do.

  I have loved her all along,

  even if I didn’t want her to

  come back and spoil everything.

  I love her especially today,

  since I know without her saying a word

  that she won’t be coming back to get us.

  I love her for doing the hard thing.

  I love her for letting me live my life.

  I love her for knowing

  that this is what I need.

  She hugs Charlie, and then

  she walks away with fast steps,

  her heels clicking on the cement.

  Thank you, Mama, I whisper.

  I watch her disappear down the road,

  and then my eye catches on a berry bunch

  someone dropped on the cement.

  The color, bright red on gray,

  looks a whole lot like

  my life today.

  Gray was the old life,

  the one where a daddy

  disappeared and a mama left

  and a boy walked around

  with too many empty spaces

  to fill again. I thought life

  would always be gray.

  I’m
not saying life is perfect.

  The protestors still shout awful things

  at Mr. Langley and Greg when we

  walk through the streets of our city.

  People still fight one another for what

  they think is right.

  But my life today is mostly red,

  with an aunt Bee and

  an uncle Luke and

  Gran and Granddad and

  Greg and Charlie,

  all different shades and colors

  living together like family.

  Like we were meant to be.

  Sometimes family doesn’t look

  exactly the way we expect it to.

  Sometimes it looks maybe

  just a little bit better.

  Author’s Note

  The Colors of the Rain began with a sentence: “I heard the shots from nine miles away.” This sentence does not open the book, nor is it completely intact anywhere within it. But this sentence was important, because it was my first encounter with Paulie and his remarkable life.

  While I have taken creative liberties with Paulie and his family’s story, many of the circumstances surrounding him are true—the Houston Independent School District was somewhat behind in the integration of black students into its predominantly white schools. A very slow, nationwide desegregation began in 1954, after the historic U.S. Supreme Court case Brown v. Board of Education, which declared that all racial segregation (or separation of white students and black students) in public schools violated the U.S. Constitution’s promise of equal rights and protection for all people. Several Southern states, particularly those where racial segregation was prominent, took more time to integrate than the national government believed they should.

  The Colors of the Rain is my attempt to capture this piece of history alongside some of its emotional undertones. Desegregation was dangerous work, full of passionate protests, unthinkable violence, and both overt and covert racism. Desegregation was not an overnight success. It required decades of hard work, persistence, and conviction to integrate successfully—and even today, there exist places in the south, as well as the north, that still haven’t fully embraced equal rights for all people, regardless of their skin tone, their culture, or their way of life. We often forget the painful and difficult work required to heal human divides—work that includes acceptance, understanding, and love.

  It’s important to remember.

  There is still so much work to be done. One of the most important things we can do is what you have done with The Colors of the Rain: Listen to the stories of others.

  It’s not easy to understand those who bully. It’s not easy to understand those who make bad choices. It’s not easy to understand people who are different from us. But when we listen to their stories without assuming we already know who they are, based on what they do and how they live and what they look like, we have the greatest chance of healing the divides in our world. Of repairing what’s been broken. Of living in love.

  I hope you and I will be brave enough to do our part.

  Acknowledgments

  I always knew The Colors of the Rain would eventually be published, though it was a long and winding road that led to this book in your hands. Countless rejections, countless revisions, and countless people lead to a book’s birth into the world. I’m so grateful that I don’t have to walk this road alone.

  Thank you, first and foremost, to my amazing husband, Ben, for taking the kids swimming or to the park or for just simply cooking dinner, even though it’s not your night to cook, when I descend the stairs with that spacey look and say in a dream-like voice, “I think I need to write something down real quick.” Sorry that “real quick” usually means a couple of hours later. Thank you for all you do to help me live my dream. Thank you for crying with me when I don’t know if I deserve this and for reminding me I am worthy. Thank you for your transformational love.

  To my sons, Jadon, Asa, Hosea, Zadok, Boaz, and Asher—your creativity, your inspiration, your witty comments, your wonder, your joy, and your hope—they are all life-giving to me. I love you so very much.

  Mom: Thank you for always believing in me and nurturing my love of both reading and writing. Thank you for keeping pencils in stock and stapling my “books” together when I was a little girl. And thank you for keeping them all.

  Kervin: Thank you for adopting us as your children.

  Aunt Lynette: Thank you for buying me my first writing book when I was eight. I still have it on one of my shelves.

  Ashley and Jarrod: Thank you for teaching me what it means to be a sister and for sticking with me through hell and high water. You’re the best siblings I could ever imagine.

  Helen Montoya Henrichs: Thank you for contributing stunning photographs that helped build Paulie’s story at its beginning. I am lucky to call you not only our family documentarian, but also a friend. While this story looks much different than it did in our collaborative days, you are part of its foundation. Thank you for your contribution.

  Rena Rossner: Thank you for taking a chance on a cold query, for falling in love with Paulie’s story and understanding just what I wanted to do with it, and for pushing me to cut and rewrite and shape it into a better book than it might have been without you. You are a master at what you do, and I’m so thankful to have such a fierce, determined, practical agent.

  Sonali Fry: Thank you so very much for choosing to share Paulie’s story, for seeing its potential, for shaping it into what it’s become. Thank you for asking about my family, for your compassion that often made me cry (though you couldn’t see it across cyberspace), for caring enough to say, “No rush, whenever you can.” I am so thankful to have an editor like you.

  Nic Stone: Thank you for reading an early version of this story and making some helpful suggestions. Your time is so very much appreciated.

  Chris Silas Neal: Thank you for the most perfect cover of my book that I could possibly have envisioned for it—so perfect, in fact, that I cried the first time I saw it. You are amazingly gifted at what you do, and I am so honored to have a piece of your art living forever on my book.

  Thank you to the entire team at Yellow Jacket: David DeWitt, Dave Barrett, Gayley Avery, and Nadia Almahdi. You have truly brought this book to life, and I will be eternally grateful for your hard work and dedication.