the color brown
September 16, 2016
I have always found the color brown a little dull. It is bland, monotonous; every variation that tries to label itself a “shade” comes off as too similar to the last. Moreover, most brown things are unpleasant. For instance, feces, with its heavy smell and drab ovalish shape, is most definitely not a brag-worthy attribute. Mud, too, sloshing underfoot and clinging ferociously to an unsuspecting passerby, hinders what little reputation brown holds. And while die-hard coffee fans may disagree, I, for one, despise the bitter aftertaste embedded in its murky depths.
But perhaps I am too quick to judge. Perhaps I have been conditioned to define brown solely through the unflattering objects that represent it.
The other day, a colorblind man asked me to describe the color brown. I opened my mouth, ready to spew a river of hateful comments on its drabness, but then stopped short. Was this the impression I wanted him to leave with? Was there no virtue in a color I had been gifted to see?
So, I thought again, and this is what I said of the color brown:
Some say that brown feels worn, crumbly, ready to be passed on to a different generation. I suppose they are referring to a piece of wood, with its blend of flaky surfaces and unpredictable lumps like that of a overly-dented water bottle. To me, though, brown feels more like a pot of thick, rich chocolate. As I swirl my fingers through it, I would vouch for the smooth, viscous consistency that is more characteristic of the color brown.
Perhaps my favorite aspect of brown lies in its enhancement of food. I love the sizzle of welcome as pan meets oil meets onion, and the gradual opacity enveloping the onion’s caramelized body. On chilly November mornings, I always look forward to downing a slice of perfectly toasted bread, upon which only the color brown can provide me with enough crunch-factor satisfaction. (But beware, this is not to be confused with the burnt taste of black.) Even an innocent banana, so pure with its gleaming yellow skin, eventually comes down with a bad case of brown acne, inviting me to take a bite of the sweet, tender flesh. By virtue of taste alone, I would argue that brown is essential to living a fulfilled, comforting life.
While brown takes the spotlight in my food preferences, it traverses a more modest path when being attributed to human characteristics. What does brown represent? Think endearing, like the loyal little teddy bear that sits by your bedside, having endured years of juice stains and torn limbs and coated in a permanent layer of fine dust, but always, always waiting. Think strength and resilience in the weathered lines of a farmer’s hand, those hands that have spent years digging deeper into the tough soil. Think comfort from a simple leather couch that folds gently around your body, ready to accommodate any position you have in mind. Think familiarity in a wooden childhood rocking horse that continues to sway in its endless, rhythmic manner. But most of all, think home, with all its warmth and welcome.
At the end of our conversation, the colorblind man inquired a curious thing: Tell me, how can I see brown?
To me, the answer was simple—he could not. As I scrambled to formulate a response, my mouth trembling as it decided on an answer, I remembered one thing: in bed at night, the last thing I saw before descending into darkness was the color brown.