Life is beautiful

The girl with the spray can

The girl with the spray can

The mask sat tight on my face. It made it hard to breath, but I needed it. If someone saw me. Well let’s not talk about those obtuse things. It was clear that I was doing something that was prohibited. My heart was beating increasingly, and cold frosty clouds dispersed from my mouth. It was cold outside. I sneaked up close by the walls, the memories of today still fresh in my mind. The night was still young. I had a lot of time to do my exertion. I found a suitable wall, looked around for those corrupt policemen. When none was in sight I began my work.

The sound of my spray can made me think. It wasn’t the first picture I made, but it would be the best till now. I painted things that meant so much to people. You could just not walk straight past it. I recalled a story we had read long ago in class. About a boy who painted Christ black. Well, it wasn’t original. But it would struck the cores of those black haters.

I got to work. Slowly dawn ascended behind me. Painting the sky as pink as I painted Christ black. I looked at my chef-d'oeuvre. My masterpiece in other words. Then I gathered my stuff and ran before any of those black haters came. The cans made a harassed noise as I ran to another wall and climbed it. I pondered on staying here, looking at the faces of those who saw it. My work. But then I could get caught. So I decided against it. On the roof I could see the sky. Oh, how untarnished it was. I wondered if haters existed up there, but I highly doubt it. Unless God hates us that is. I hid my backpack in one of the air vents like usual. Then I sprinted back home to grab my stuff before school starts. I wasn’t in any case tired jet. I was brimming with energy!

The school bell rang loudly when I arrived. I barely made it back to school. “Phew,” I said to my best friend. Her brown skin glistened in the rising sun. It was P.E in first period. I got some rude glances from Mrs. Perfect. It was clear that she meant that no white person should hang out with a black person. I ignored her and said smiling to my best friend; “just wait until later”. I smirked wickedly and gave her the “I am evil” look. She looked at me. “What did you do this time?” she said thwarted, but who was she to judge? Someone had to stand up against racism. I was not the right person for speeches, so. It started with nominal paintings at some walls. Which has now escalated. My best friend dragged me behind a corner. Oh, you want to talk? “Don’t do these things Zoey. You could get caught,” she said. “But what else should I do? Hold a speech and get shot? Like some of the other freedom fighters?” Sasha shakes her head. “Couldn’t you write a letter or something? Maybe a book?” I observed her. I was kind of let down. “Do I seem like the person to sit down and think about how wrong we white people act toward you guys?” She seemed to think for a few milliseconds before answering; “No, but by doing this, you risk yourself! Why not make ourselves fight for our own rights?” Didn’t she see? “You have fought enough!” I turned furiously on my heels. Making my way back to the lockers, where I changed back into my old garments.

My eyes swept across the town. Some people looked at the painting I made earlier. Drowsiness began making its way to me. I yawned and looked in the direction of my old pictures. It was all small steps toward something so big. Equal rights. It was a shame no one was born with it. Even white people get discriminated against. Believe it or not. I made no big difference in this fight. I wish I could be like Nelson Mandela or even Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. but sadly I was not. I needed to do something more than small steps. Because small steps won’t do anymore.

I raced along the rooftops. Refreshed in the freezing air. I, Zoey will no longer be a nominal person. I will be intrepid and paint a picture a place no one will overlook it! I wish I could paint it in the sky, but clearly that wouldn’t do. I made my way to the train station. I waited. Looking at people make their way to their houses. I saw black people. I saw white people. I saw people all kinds of age and wealth. But they were still people. No more, no less. Finally the moon peeked through the sky. I was a shadow in the evening. Easy to overlook, but I was making something that wouldn’t be.

I am glad I brought extra cans of paint to make this. It was an indescribable picture in all the colors I had. Everywhere was signs for equal rights. I straightened my back. Fatigue and hunger soaked through me. And I exhaled deeply. “Whoa,” I whispered to myself when I turned towards the sun. I had to hurry, or else someone might notice me. I peeked at the train station. If I hurried. I made my way up one of the buildings close by. And this time I didn’t go back to school. No, I waited to look at the people beholding my simple painting.

Even in the scalding coldness of the sun. I was warm. It was thrilling waiting up here. It was still hard to breath, but I managed just fine. People arrived at the station. I noticed how everyone walked around it. People stopped and looked at it with bewilderment. I had left my signature as I always did: The spray can girl. I knew this wasn’t enough to change laws, make new politics or astonish God himself. But it was a step in the right direction. Maybe not a big step like those of Nelson Mandela or Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. but even they had footprints coming from back when they were young. And without footprints to look back at, then how do you know you are going in the right direction?