The Tan (or Yellow) House

Caio Legname—Honorable Mention, Glimmerglass Festival Youth Writing Competition
Grade 11, Oneonta Senior High School

“It’s tan,” I said.

”No, it’s yellow!” My sister responded.

We were arguing over the color of our house, something that we could never agree upon—which is strange, since we had lived in that house together for at least nine years.

I would walk into that house every single day, telling myself that it was tan. I was so utterly, completely sure that it was tan that no matter what anyone would say, it would not change my mind. I simply would not listen to reason.

We ended up asking our mother once, and she sided with my sister.

I felt betrayed. Of course, something so stupid does not matter that much, but it meant the world to me. I needed somebody to take my side on this, to support me, to tell me that the house that we lived in was tan.

I would have asked my dad, but he passed away when I was six. I knew deep inside that he would have agreed with me—our house was tan. Not because the house actually was tan, because no, it probably wasn’t, but because it would have balanced everything. See, in a group of three, if two people agree, then the third is simply wrong. But, in a group of four, there is balance. Nobody is right or wrong.

Me and my sister would both walk in every day, but when we walked in we saw it as a different color. I suppose my mom and my dad, too, even if they also believed that it was yellow. Perhaps it was a different shade of yellow… One that could only be realized after living for many years.

When we moved, I knew I would miss the tan house. I drove by recently to find that the new owner had painted it a new color: green. I wonder what color he saw the house as, and why he felt the need to change it.

What was so wrong with the tan color that he felt the need to change it?

What could possibly be the reason?

I don’t know. I don’t know the answer to a lot of things, like why we all saw the house as a different color. Maybe that’s a good thing, the fact that we can all walk into the same place every single day and still have our own unique perspective on that.

I think that is beautiful.

But still, to this day, if my sister asks me the question “What color was the house that we grew up in?”

I’ll tell her that it was tan.