The Audacity to Paint When Immigrant Children Remain in Cages
By: Shon Mapp
In the living room of our altbau flat, I stand a soundless slab of solid granite, flanked by too many white walls, while she wildly gesticulates her disappointment.
“Where were you? she asked.
“I was where I am now, here. Creating.”
She peeled away her dark layers in front of the closet and walked towards the kitchen.
The rest of the night was spent apart in a slow silent truce. An unlikely serenity hung in the air following our non-argument, disrupted only by her phone calls with the other protest organizers. After midnight, when I could no longer hear her soles slide across the honey wood floors, I stood from my squatted position to study the hundreds of tiny painted cages that covered three quarters of the enormous canvas.
I could hear her soft breath as I entered the room and stood bedside for a few moments, waiting for the dark adaptation to reveal her still silhouette under the duvet. In seconds, her legs appeared in a forward slash across the queen mattress. I tiptoed from the puddle of paint speckled clothing and slid into bed. My legs snaked between hers as I inched closer until our breasts touched.
“Did you finish? She mumbled.
“No. But, I’m tired,” I replied.
“Yeah. Me too.”