Allyson Herrera

First Place: Nonfiction

“La Piranga Roja” 
by Allyson Herrera
12th grade, Morristown High School

—

Red used to be my least favorite color. It was the color of the shame I felt looking in the mirror. It was the color of the unwarranted stares I got in public. It was the color of the pain I so desperately tried to scrub away. Red was the color of my acne.

At fourteen years old, acne started appearing on my face. It wasn’t just the small pimples my classmates complained about; I had swollen, tender cysts and splotchy red patches that stretched across my cheeks. Holding a conversation became quite the challenge; people’s eyes always diverted to my breakouts, while my words were swept under their gaze and left to gather dust. Wanting to avoid the hassle altogether, I stopped talking. My room was my only refuge—its white walls, the steady hum of the spinning fan, and the softness of my bed offered a comfort the outside world did not.

“Why can’t I be normal?” was a recurring question that popped up in my head as I scrolled through Instagram. My feed was filled with girls who had clear skin, smiling against a sunset backdrop. Other social media platforms weren’t any better. Gimmicky YouTube videos titled “Want smooth, glowy skin?” promised instant solutions—and I bought into it. Every night I followed the same ritual: cleanser to wash away dirt, toner to balance pH, serum to brighten, and moisturizer to hydrate. My bathroom shelf was overflowing with products. But my acne was relentless.

That winter, I went to Colombia to stay with my grandmother. I needed a break—from school, from work, from the internet, and more than anything, from my own thoughts. Abuelita Goga’s house was nestled in a small village where the aromas of home-cooked meals melded into a delicious symphony. Neighbors sat beneath the shade of the mango trees, sipping their coffee or hot chocolate as they conversed. Children played together in the streets and dogs followed close behind.

Mornings were typically spent helping with chores around the house. On one particular day, I found myself doing laundry on the rooftop, scrubbing shirts under the warm sun. That’s when I saw it. There was a bird perched precariously on the barbed wire, looking right at me. Its feathers glistened in the light—bold, bright, and … red.

“Abuelita, come!” I yelled down the stairs. Her steps grew louder as she neared, and the scent of her floral perfume soon overtook the smell of soap.

“What’s wrong Mija?” Abuelita Goga asked, out of breath.

“Look!” I pointed to the bird in wonder.

“Ah, it’s a Piranga roja. They don’t have those back in the States?”

“I’ve never seen one before,” I admitted. “It’s beautiful.” We stood still, observing as the bird tilted his head and chirped melodically. Then, with a small hop, he spread his wings and soared through the sky. Abuelita Goga smiled gently and gave my shoulder a soft squeeze as she started back down the stairs. I quickly finished wringing out the last shirt and hung it over the wire to air dry. Whispering a soft goodbye to the bird now lost in the horizon, I made my way back inside.

Later that day, I sat next to Abuelita Goga on the poarch. She was knitting something, her hands dancing together with ease.

“Abuelita,” I began quietly, “what does beauty mean to you?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she finished the row she was working on, the needles clicking rhythmically. When she finally looked up, her eyes reflected the golden hue of the setting sun that now bathed us.

“Beauty is courage,” she said simply. I could see her faint scars and cuts on her hands, gathered from years of cooking, gardening, and mending. She never tried to hide them, and to me, they were beautiful.

The image of the bird stuck with me. He wore his color unapologetically. Maybe my skin—red and all—was not ugly either. It was a part of my story. For so long, I was convinced healing would come with clearer skin, but I realized it stems from how I treat myself. Healing means letting go of comparisons, embracing the ups and downs, and building a support system. It means being courageous. My redness may never completely go away, but neither will the strength it taught me.