HOW “NEGRO” BECAME “SUNSHINE”, OR HOW BLACK CAN BE YELLOW,
BUT ALSO NO COLOUR AT ALL

In the Catholic Church, or better say it, among the Catholic souls, a black cat somehow grew to represent a threatening symbol of menace, dark and ominous influence…No matter how you name it, a superstition, plain stupidity or something more creative and exotic - many obliging, devoted Catholic women will shamelessly spit at the sight of a black cat on their paths. They'll do it loudly, and I dare to say, passionately, just before they feverishly make a few signs of the cross, annulling this way the grim likelihoods and tragedies this "satanic beast" and witch-pet could bring upon their pure lives.

It is somewhat ironic that at the time when the impact of this story begins, I was a twelve year old religious lass, church choir youngster and diligent catechism student; I was reading the Bible at almost every Sunday mass, decorating alters with lavish flowers arrangements, cleaning the priest's home and even helping the nun bake communion hosts for faithful and, of course, the priest. Despite the habit of hanging out with the woman who answered the call to follow the Catholic doctrine and who devoted her life to Jesus, and even so I was quietly dreaming of following her path myself, I was somehow not affected with the “black intolerance” phenomenon.    

On that stage, next, imagine the entrance of a small and beautiful, and in my eyes, a completely innocent kitten. I lovingly brought him home, managing somehow to persuade my parents to allow me to keep him.

The kitten that brought such a great joy into my life became my most beloved companion. He managed to enrich each day with his fluffy paws, with his sharpening scratches of my bedroom’s door; he managed to mark each day with his unusual unconventional (punk-like) cat behaviour.

I smile while vividly recalling his distinctive lazy, almost stereotypical Dalmatian style strolls; back and forth under the water pipe. The pipe that was probably due to the worn rubber constantly dripping, soaking his fur. He was not bothered with the well-known fact that cats are supposed to hate the water. I guess nobody has ever told him; hence, it was not his problem.

Once well-soaked, he’d stretch on the bed next to me, starting his daily ritual of grooming, saving this way, daily, on numerous unnecessary tongues strokes. (Hm, if only it’s possible to follow his saving-wise model... cutting back with regard to one different way of using a tongue). In all other aspects, he was a typical tom; I adored his silly playfulness, I was inspired with his never-ending adventures, with the wise chasings of his own tail (of course, he was well and truly aware of the circular nature of life, just alike all animals if you ask me).

Unfortunately the blackness of his fur has dimmed his fate in a similar way the blackness of his fur has dimmed the intelligence of those neighbours in the fourth row from the altar. Those neighbours decided one day to poison his food. I found my Negro motionless, cold and stiff under the palm tree in the courtyard. Neither the milk on his snout, nor his adored ball would help me feel his rough tongue licks or see the mischievous spark of his once warm yellow eyes. It was my first encounter with death. Horrific encounter. It was a day I realized it is not wise to trust people.
That was my conclusion. 

Some 6 to 7 years later, I was a young, enthusiastic student in the Capital. I enrolled at the university of my choice, secured the place in the dorm, acquired the state scholarship with my hard work and joyously studied what I was interested in - Social Pathology (oops, sorry, Social Pedagogy).

The life finally was alike a benevolent kid that was winking on me holding his thumbs up.

Then and there, in one (first) week I was hit by a car in front of the student centre, none the less, it was by the ghastly coroner’s van; I was mugged in a tram losing worthless 20 Kunas together with all the food stamps I needed for the food court that month and all the documents I kept in my wallet.

When defeated, disheartened and bruised with my arm in a cast, I walked into my doctor’s office for a check-up, she took my hand in a caring, motherly manner, and looking straight into my eyes, compassionately suggested that Zagreb may not be very fond of me. Although she did not say it, I guess she meant it may be for the best to return back home to Split, to safety.

The fact that, as a result of the accident my right hand was in the cast so, I needed my (greatly disliked) roommate to spoon feed me and even strap up my shoe laces, did not aid the state of my mind.

It was a tough bite to swallow for my, already aggravated, emotional stomach. I've already started thinking about quitting, howling over myself, when the life sent a bit of fennel to help digest it all.

I felt lonely, injured, abandoned, helpless, miserable, with no friends or family in the cold and unknown city.

During one of these, bleak and self-pitying days, whose tone was conveniently, strengthen with a rainy and foggy Zagreb Autumn mood and with the fact my roommate (not me!) received a package from home, I heard an unusual sound coming from the window of my room. This sound scared me at first (of course, back then I didn’t know I was scared by my negative interpretation of the sound, not the innocent sound itself).

I immediately thought what most women would in a similar situation. It must be the ugliest creature in the world, the one with a hairless tail ... .or maybe the voyeur known to creep around the Girls’ pavilion…that actually fits the first menace’s description just as well.

However, back then I did already know that defeating fears works best by pointing a spotlight straight onto them; not literally in this instance of course (who has a spotlight in a room?) but by walking straight towards the window, regardless of feeling scared, to see what was going on.

On the outside of the window frame, wiggling and scratching the glass there was beautiful, little, black kitten. The same as my Negro once was!

The same image, the same feeling of affection and enthusiasm, unity and inspiration, distortion of time and so on...Nor the cast, nor roommate, nor lack of money was an issue. It only mattered that I was not alone anymore.

Still, as soon as he noticed the therapeutic effect of his presence (data fact – circa seven days of intensive therapeutic relationship that included multiple scratches), the cat showed a decisive and obvious desire to desert my room, abandon my cuddles and my ownership over him. I reluctantly complied with his wish and let him back into the yard of the dorm...Over there he continued with his nonchalant lifestyle, and during the coming years of my studying, I watched him fattening up on various delicacies coming from numerous students’ rooms belonging to “my-kind” of melancholic newcomers; all of the above in quite a similar manner as any conventional psychiatrist, also pretending that he has no idea who I am...

And I know that this story would not be remarkable if it stopped here... but the tale of a small black furry creatures carrying comfort and appearing on my door steps and windows’ sills whenever I moved, wherever I went throughout the country continued always impeccably in the times of some great suffering and the inevitable loneliness I felt.

On one extremely cold and slimy Zagreb day, that by the weight of hurting and solitude perfectly fits the concept when the cat intervention is urgently required, I was walking nervously along the tram station kicking the snow around in all of my frustration. I was feeling disappointed that even The One Above has abandoned me making this situation even worse than before.  He does not even bother to send black cats my way anymore. As if this is a problem for Him?!

Marching like that on a station nearby the Sava bridge (the bridge here is coincidental and unrelated to any suicidal associations!) in one of my furious snow shovelling kicks, something flew out of the snow and rattled with its metallic sound on the concrete. This sound stood out in the snow silenced environment and got my full attention. I reached down, not in a million years knowing what to expect, bringing closer to my sight a little, round, metal object. My eyes popped, my jaws dropped. Remembering that I’m surrounded with people, I made a conscious effort to shut my mouth. I continued the stare, though, in my amazement and disbelief. A small round metal brooch laid on the palm of my hand. Green on the back, with a black as a coal little familiar character on the front. A kitten. Completely black. Directly delivered, I suppose. I could say now “cross my heart it’s truth”, but this phrase would not fit the writing style of serious essay, i.e. story.

Staring at the brooch, a small well-known nose was looking back at me. The shock turned into admiration and joy, and I started laughing out loud in the middle of the station, in the middle of this slush, the real one that was surrounding me, and the symbolic one, that was representing my life.

I immediately thought how resourceful, as well as humorous, as well as ever-present, the One Above actually is. I heard his dead serious voice in my head (saying this symbolically and metaphorically – these were not yet the auditory hallucinations) - "Look! I’ve sent you a cat, and then another, and then another, fourth one, fifth one... In every crisis, I deliver as per order. How many cats should I keep in stock? And you even stubbornly insist they are all black for some stubborn reason? Really, would you like to request a song too? Here’s the brooch, snap it on your coat and carry it around all the time, and then wisely assume that you are never alone! And, for me, I would like a break…"
There you go; I guess I was a slow learner…

This could potentially be the end of the story...but I could also continue with some of the more recent events when I was looking for a new apartment. Yes, I am very pleased with what I have found, and yes, I could list a whole number of reasons why I am where I am. Or maybe the truth behind my choice relies on the fact that with the apartment also came its resident - an elegant and sleek, slick and beautifully groomed big black cat.

I already mentioned him in the title of this story so you know his name. And who doesn’t like Sunshine on the window even if it looks like an eclipse?! We now know better than that.

We could debate if it’s a learning curve and a change of the norm, if it is significant that this is an adult cat, not a kitten, if it is significant he is here for longer than 7 therapeutic days, if it is significant I moved into his space and not vice versa ... It all seems to show a great potential for various interpretations ... but this is where my story stops as for now all I want is to be joyful.  It may be a beginning or continuation of your own story. You can, but also do not have to tell me.

Writing has given me a great satisfaction and engaged my imagination, and it was necessary to discipline and sharpen the mind as well as the pen (that actually cracked during the process). Yet the process had an extremely healing effect on me. I would like to know it did the same for you, but this outcome is not a necessity. Maybe possibility? I wonder ...

I believe you hand-picked what you wanted of the buffet table I presented. You may have not gone pass the third paragraph, and that's ok. Or maybe you are already writing your own inspirational story in your head.

Anyhow, I hug you dearly, while sipping on my tea and listening his careless purr….