Skip to content

London In The New World

by: Shanae Tudor

Ever heard the saying painting the roses red?

It indicates that by painting the roses red, the subjects show their passion and let cruel dispositions reign over the society/community. Temper is also a part of it, which also makes sense why, out of all colours, the roses are painted red. When you have a terrible temper, it’s considered “red” because red is a sign of anger issues and rage.

This expression could also apply to equality and discrimination against colour; by painting the subjects white, they show their love for what they are doing and letting cruel things reign on the coloured communities.
There is no discrimination and racism if everyone looks similar. Is it making a difference, though?
People who weren’t born with skin like snow white still deal with the searing pain of not being identified as fair-skinned, haggling with the horrific nightmare of never actually being more than who they are.

Following her place, London stood in the corner of a closet gnawing on an orange peel, with the look of disgust and loneliness, being all by herself. She was the soil beneath the daycare’s feet; the other kids were more important than her because she was the only child there of colour. She wasn’t considered unique in any way, shape or form; London was just an issue, though this beautifully individual child has done nothing to deserve what she was going through. But, since she was brainwashed, she thought this was the norm and followed every rule.

Years later, the government noticed the uprising of people of colour. Their mindsets grew more educated, more protests began, and more people fought for their rights and freedom. Of course, London and her relatives became interested in this.

The government was intimidated by this issue and created a law to “paint the roses red” or, in this case, paint the people white. They forced people out of their households took them to places around the world away from society.

These people, hidden away behind a mask, sang as they started to paint little London white as if they were doing a ritual.

“Painting the people white, we’re painting the people white. We dare not stop or waste a drop, so spread the paint. We’re painting the people white. Don’t tell society what you have seen or say that’s what we said, but we’re painting the people white. Yes, white. Not pink. Not green. Not aquamarine. we’re painting the people white.” ~ Alice in wonderland painting the roses red remake.

“Welcome outcasts to your new home for the next ten years of your life. Your opinions here don’t matter; according to the government, you will become one with white communities. No more fighting for your rights. We will all be equal and cherish the moments we have together for the next ten years at the school for the outcasts! Your former helpers will get you set in your nice cozy room and show you where you will be going every day from here on in until our time together is over.”

Seconds later, everything went quiet until the so-called “helpers” showed up. Many people refused the entire idea of this and wouldn’t listen, but as soon as that happened, those shackles gave them an electric shock.

“London Thomas, age 17, gender female. We will be here to assist you in your new home. The first thing we do, though, because you are of age, is to repopulate to gain more fair-skinned beautiful children. Do we have your consent to do that in a couple of months?”

London looked at all the people fighting and gaining bruises from it, and she turned to the three people in front of her, unclear of their identities.
“Yes,” she said.

“Very good, a bright, intelligent lady you are, you will do great in the new world,” the one on the far right said as the others nodded. They took London to her bedroom and closed the door as she walked in, “school starts tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn. Sleep well 3492.”

London laid down on the stiff, uncomfortable white bed, looking at her skin that showed the paint had seeped into her skin. She stayed there wondering.
“What’s going to happen next? Will things ever get better?”.

Eventually, the young girl started to doze off into slumber, trying to get comfortable, though it felt like bugs were crawling through her burning skin, telling her this wasn’t right.

When she fell asleep, it was like everything faded away. She was home safely in her bed as her mom sang her a lullaby

“Let me sing a lullaby as you close your eyes and as you’re drifting off to sleep. How I hope that the dreams that you find are bright. Love, can we meet again soon in the bluest of skies? Where tomorrow waits for you and I, so hold me tight one more time, but don’t kiss me goodbye because I know that I’ll see you on the other side.
I will think of our song when the nights are too long. I’ll dream of you, for that’s where I belong. Love, can we meet again soon in the bluest of skies? Only, in my dreams, do we meet again.”
– Isabella’s lullaby