Color

Color fascinates me, and I’m sure it always will. I’ve been told it’s only light reflecting off the surface of things, but to me, it means so much more. My world has so little color in it that every sparkle of yellow, flash of red, glimmer of green, or shimmer of blue is a treasure to be kept locked in my memory. You see, I spend twelve hours a day, six days a week, 300 feet underground, encased in blackness. In 1854, it is where I and several hundred of my fellow villagers earn our livings.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Dylan, and I am eight years old. For the past three years, I have entered the Big Pit located in Blaenavon, Wales, with my father, older brother, and several cousins. This is where we earn a living for our families. I’m not quite strong enough or tall enough to load the dumpers; that job is for the older kids. The mine shafts are divided by doors to help control the airflow in and out of the tunnels. My job is to sit by one of these doors on a wooden box in the dark for twelve hours a day and wait for a signal to open and close it so the carts can pass through. I could have a candle for light, but they are expensive, and the tokens I earn need to go toward food and clothing, not luxuries like light. Candles may be cheaper in other stores, but we are paid in tokens, which have to be spent in the company store.

Summer is my favorite time of the year because it stays lighter longer. During the winter, it’s dark in the morning when I go into the mine, and it’s dark when I emerge from the pit. The only color I get to see is the firelight reflecting off the walls of our one-room dwelling. The dull light subdues the limited amount of colors that exist in our dismal abode. Everything changes during the summer.

Instead of transferring from one shade of night into another, I emerge from eternal darkness into a beautiful world of vibrant colors. The sky is still multiple shades of blue with white, billowy clouds floating by. The ground is a mixture of browns and greens with sprinkles of vibrant reds, yellows, purples, and oranges. Being able to partake in this truncated daytime makes me feel like the luckiest boy in the world. I’ve been told some people work at jobs that never require them to go underground. I wonder if they realize how lucky they are.

My mother tells me I might acquire one of those topside jobs one day, but first I will have to learn how to read and write, not only in Welsh but English too. I tell her I’m willing to learn, but she doesn’t know anyone capable of teaching me. That’s how it is for most of us born into mining communities. We are destined to live out our lives from the day we are born until the day we die, stuck 300 feet underground. Color appears to be reserved only for the wealthy, but I’m not going to let that be my life.

I’m not old enough yet, but once I turn 12, I’m heading to London or perhaps Birmingham. I’ve heard stories about places called factories where all types of machinery and clothing are produced, and it’s all done above ground. I will be able to watch the sun rise into the sky, lighting up the world with vibrant colors. Colors that will remain precious to me until I die.

***

I was inspired to write this story by a recent trip my wife and I took to the UK. We visited a coal mine in Wales called the Big Pit. Although my character is fictional, the working and living conditions are true. I only hope this story has a fraction of the effect on you as visiting this site had on me.