Si·en·na
/sēˈenə/
noun
a kind of ferruginous earth used as a pigment in painting, normally yellowish-brown in color (raw sienna) or deep reddish-brown when roasted (burnt sienna).
Sienna—
Skin the color of beginnings.
Both your name and body, painted by God.
Both birthed and the birthplace,
The tongue has found that your alias is home.
Ferruginous one—
Exist not to the point of end.
You’re permitted to create yourself again if need be.
But speak and brush softly.
***
Growing up, I don’t remember what I looked like. Beyond the age of ten, I have no recollection, no Vaseline-faced picture day photos, no tiny black comb souvenirs, and no yearbook memorabilia. Whenever I had to take pictures, a feeling of aversion would wash over me. Bullies made me not want to remember what I looked like. Without a strong sense of self-worth, I became vulnerable to the influence of external appearances on my self-perception. During early childhood, my smile was like a precious jewel, cherished and adored. But as I grew older, it slipped away, leaving me longing to wear it proudly once more at twenty-six.
My entire life I’ve dealt with name-calling, unkind nicknames, and other forms of verbal harassment. As a little girl, I remember picking up a pencil and paper and telling God everything that I wanted Him to know. He knew how much I hated myself. Every way that I wanted to be made over. Every body part that I didn’t like. How I wanted to be short, small, and feminine like my girl classmates. How I wished my feet would shrink while I slept at night. How disgusted I was with my body hair. I hated smiling. I didn’t want them to see my underbite and crowded teeth. I kept my eyes to the ground, praying to my unaligned feet, begging not to trip and cause even more attention to myself. I wished that I could speak when called on, without getting a lump in my throat.
I pleaded that, if I sat in the front of the class, that they’d be able to see around my big head. The Bible says God consults with no one in order to know and understand and to learn how things should be done, but I did my best to exhort Him and bargain that I’d do anything He wanted me to do if I could go through the day invisible. That no one would say my head resembled a basketball, a plaything, or an inflated animated character’s head. Think Hey Arnold! Hello Kitty. Jimmy Neutron. Dora. Those were my school names—my head has always been my worst distinguishing feature.
I recall a girl who said she couldn’t see around my head—I wittily reminded her that it was her whose literal nickname was “Tweety,” not mine. Sometimes, I wish I were a mascot—able to take my big head off and have something smaller underneath. Not to mention, I also had dermatitis, which left thick white flakes on my shirt collars. Names like, linebacker, Frankenstein, sasquatch, wolf, and anything that was manly, tall, broad-chested, and hairy, were assigned to me. Then I remember what God said about my forename: The proficient, multimedia God said, “Let there be Sienna. For I shall give you a name above and before any family name. I shall send reds, browns, pinks, oranges, and yellows to accompany Sienna.”
***
Despite the impact of these early encounters, I’ve embraced a watercolor existence, where life blends and bleeds into a transparent masterpiece. My emotions are like soluble dyes, staining my sleeves and revealing my innermost feelings. I used to hope that each time I brushed away my tears, my reflection would reveal a completely different person. As I’m embarking on this exploration for Sienna, I find myself rewriting my narrative and embracing the opportunity to heal my inner child. The search becomes more challenging without the aid of photos, which have the power to transport you back to that specific moment. As long as it has taken me to search for Sienna, picture Sienna, define Sienna, and show up as Sienna, raw Sienna has been my favorite shade to create with. I use words and water to produce pictures. The colors that make me a part of life’s mosaic, have already been chosen. I’m so blessed to share this color with readers. I am glad that paper is my solid ground. Even if I have no photos to look back on, I am glad that my words capture my permanent image.
***
I can place the exact day that I was told my writing was special. It was elevan years ago [2013] in 10th grade, early Fall in English class, during our poetry unit. Our graded assignment was to compose a poem about where we are from. We were instructed to think and write about the things that made us unique. Our family structures, our neighborhoods, all aspects of ourselves. I honestly do not remember quite what I said, but I remember the line clearly—“I am from hospital beds and combat boots.” My teacher, Mrs. Bishop, called me up to her desk. She asked me to explain what I meant by that. I told her that hospital beds were descriptive of my mother’s failing health since I was born, I’d never seen her well. I told her that, from her hospital bed, she did the things for me that I wish my mother could have done at home. Like combing my hair, color coordinating my outfits, and telling me to take up for myself, if an adult wouldn’t do it.
I then explained that combat boots were metaphoric of my dad who has always had to work overtime to provide for our family of five. He brought in the only income, and our needs felt like war to obtain. He was a cable man and worked in the collections and disconnections department. His work uniform consisted of steel toe boots that would protect his feet during ladder climbing, going around back, or under houses, to snip wires. At the end of class I handed in my assignment thinking nothing of my writing but hoping that I got a good grade.
The next day was a sick day for me. I didn’t attend school. When I returned the day after, I received random compliments from other students and they told me how an announcement was made the previous day praising my writing. I’m like, “Huh? What did I write?” First thing in English class, Mrs. Bishop called me to her desk again. She said, You might have heard by now that your poem is going around school. I took your paper home overnight and was so impressed by the entire piece, but particularly how you used metaphors to talk about your family. I immediately took it to our department meeting to show other English teachers and the principal that this is how a student should write. This is how seriously a student should take any assignment given. It was not a competition, but all of the English teachers and my principal confirmed that I had the best poem for that assignment out of all 10th grade English students, regular and honors. For the entire week, it was displayed across school monitors in every hallway.
***
I never thought I’d become a writer, a poet, or my favorite epithet, “Sienna L. M. The Literary Artist,” a title that would come to define my passion for words and storytelling. Five years later, in 2018, I decided to send in my first poem for publication to the Colorism Healing Writing Contest. Truthfully, I am the artist that writes from inspiration, with no other purpose than recording God-given moments. Before 2018, I did not know the word or system of colorism, though I have experienced it, ineffably. Throughout my life, people have often remarked that my name sounds “white,” but little did they know, my name is a vibrant tapestry of colors. In elementary school, I navigated the hallways, oblivious to the fact that my name, though Italian, speaks volumes about the melanin in my skin. Envision the cherished crayon box, overflowing with 64 different hues, yet only my name is accompanied by the adjective “burnt.” Imagine the uproarious laughter of naïve children, who mistakenly thought that “burnt” was a synonym for “black” or “ugly.” Looking back, I wish I had known the ethnic significance of Sienna. My name serves as a constant reminder to celebrate and cherish my unique skin tone.
I wrote my poem, “Mama, Can I Go Outside,” in the latter part of 2017 with no intention of sending it anywhere. In January 2018, I began to look for publications to submit to. Notably, I found Colorism Healing. I read through what the contest looked for and it was a light-bulb moment for me. “Wow. Skin color comments have a name?” was the question I thought to myself. It struck me that I had recently written something along the lines of colorism.
I will never forget the breath-taking feeling that I had while reading the results email. There was a list of names in alphabetical order according to last names. I scrolled and scrolled and ironically, I missed my own name the first time. I remember Dr. Sarah L. Webb, the founder of Colorism Healing, said that 2018 had the most Editor’s Pick recipients, with over twenty people. I read over the names with such enthusiasm for the other authors. I hadn’t yet realized that I received the email because my piece was chosen. At first, I did a double-take. Then there was my name: “Sienna Morgan,” so beautiful, bold, and novel [in the sense of new, unusual, and pioneering]. This morsel of a moment has simmered deep within my soul and continues to be the thing that fills my paper and word documents with poems, stories, and other literary art that nourishes my small community of readers and writers.
My 2018 Editor’s Pick poem, “Mama, Can I Go Outside”, is the first piece of mine to be published, and particularly in print. Being able to hold my printed name is as if looking into the face of a thing that I have birthed. This looks like me because it is me. My story, expression, feelings, and understanding [on the topic of colorism]. My embryonic entrance into the world of literature, and how I shall record who I am and how I think.
***
As I pondered how to start my healing journey, rewriting my story was the most effective way to proceed. Your name is the sole thing that is your ownership from birth to death. Proverbs 22:1 KJV – A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold. I am coming to terms with loving my God-given name, and believing that it deserves to have space in any room that I authorize. It is so good to know that my name is out there in the world and people can associate it with life-giving things! You can look forward to my name appearing everywhere that it is destined to be!
I can reflect now and say that God is the master palette holder. No color is ever too deep, too rich, too dark, or too far away from His hand of inspiration. All of my mixed-up and colorful emotions are still useful and vital to the life that I live—to the new life that He creates within me. It’s no surprise that my name is a color. God does this funny thing, you know? He chooses the unsacred. He saves something exceptional for the unspecial. He does unfathomable things with worthlessness. He gives us the right things to say, even when our jaws are apprehensive about movement. He names us long before our existence. He grants us a name that is forever. A name that fits. A name that belongs on tongues. A name that predestines our purpose.
I never thought that I would get to a point where remembrance would become my companion. Where prophecy would become my partner. Where pain would become my helpmate. Where name-calling would become my ministry. And where stories and poetry would become my offspring. Being a female artist and author makes mothering my birthright. In all of my worthlessness, God never let me forget that I could make art. In all of my bleakness, He never let me forget that a blank canvas is His priority to fill with something beautiful.
*Edited by Non-Fiction Editor, Ravynn K. Stringfield, Ph.D.
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