Yellow

Yellow isn’t exactly my favorite color. I might not choose it for a car, a coat, or a barn. But it’s my most personal color, and I love it for dots and accents. In my family of origin, anything that was color-coded—from croquet balls to plastic breakfast juice cups—was red for my father, green for my mother, blue for my brother, and yellow for me. I still choose Colonel Mustard in Clue, yellow tokens in Parcheesi, and yellow sticky-notes and suspension folders at my desk. Synesthesia takes hold. It feels natural that sun and stars begin with my initial, S.

Pale yellows of forsythia and daffodils bloom in the garden, and wood poppies under the trees. Male goldfinches at the feeder have traded in their winter drab for bright yellow plumage. Savoring these markers of spring (another S), I don’t like “yellow-bellied” or “yellow stripe down the back” to denote cowardice. Despite lots of speculation online, the origin of those terms is unknown. I’d rather see yellow suggest courage, like a bold dandelion pushing through a crack in the sidewalk.

My ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Swisher, drummed into us that courage isn’t when you’re fearless; it’s when your will is stronger than your fear. It’s spunk, spine, spirit, and strength. Its seeds can spread. A senator risks being primaried to admit, “We are all afraid.” A school risks loss of funding to defend its academic freedom. With luck the sun shines, the breeze blows, and a second dandelion pushes up. In time, brave voices could fill the streets and airwaves, the way a zillion dandelions will turn whole cow pastures yellow.