Red, White, and Blue — Fragments of What Once Was

I learned color long before I ever held a brush.
I learned it on Court Street,
where neighborhoods touched like wet paint—
Cobble Hill, Brooklyn Heights, Downtown Brooklyn, Boerum Hill—
no hard edges, only borders that bled into one another
and became something richer.

Red was the pulse of the streets—
working hands, loud laughter, scraped knees,
the fire of Puerto Rican, Caribbean, African American,
Italian, Polish, Irish, Greek, Portuguese,
Syrian, Felipino, Jewish, American Indian lives
beating in rhythm.

White was not emptiness—
it was the space we made for one another,
the chalk lines on a football field,
the church basement where uniforms were born,
the quiet belief that we belonged together.

Blue was loyalty—
sweat-soaked jerseys, shared victories,
brothers playing both sides of the ball,
no cheerleaders, only neighborhood girls
and a coach who saw possibility
where others saw limits.

We faced teams built on separation—
all white, all Black, funded, polished, loud—
and still we stood, small and mighty,
because unity is the strongest color there is.
We won not because we matched,
but because we blended.

Today, when the world fractures its palette,
when colors are told to stay in their corners,
my heart breaks—
because I have already seen the masterpiece
that happens when they don’t.

In my painting, no color is forbidden.
Each carries purpose.
Each holds a soul.
I trust them to find one another,
the way we once did—
instinctively, beautifully,
forever changed.