i think
of ballet slippers, watermelon, my collection of pigs…all memories from my
childhood. i associate pink with little girls, not grown-up independent women—and
certainly not the one i've become. i never associated myself with pink dresses
or tutus, these things reserved for my sister jamie or newborn babies brought
home from the hospital. PINK IS
FOR GIRLS. and i am
a proud tomboy. my color would more likely be green for the hills i'd roll down,
into the dirt of the baseball diamond at hines school. or the brown of the tree trunks i'd
shinny in 3rd grade.
sure,
there were ballet slippers and tutus for a time—but these are not the antiques
i pull from the old trunk of my memory. these are someone else's childhood.
mine is blue, the aqua of the pool where i spent mornings perfecting my 25 yard
butterfly, the sky which cradled my kite as i dodged to avoid the trees
overhead. denim overalls and blueberry muffins taken on road trips to nearby towns
for yet another swim meet.
i think
now of babies—of the little girl we see in our dreams. i think of feminism and
gender roles and tiny pink booties sure to arrive gift-wrapped with bows. will
she be pink, like the aunt jamie she will know only from photographs? or will
she be fire-engine red like her mother's wedding shoes, the flaming orange of
her daddy's artwork adorning the walls? how will she find her own color—and
avoid being bound by that which society assigns her?
i come
back to the image of watermelon, huge slices hacked off and handed to small
fingers. to be eaten barefoot in the grass, juice streaming down elbows, seeds
spit into flower beds. these are the pinks of my memories, of childhoods spent outside
where children are meant to play. all of these thoughts converge as we spend
afternoons contemplating the future of this life not yet created. how my
childhood will influence hers, how i want for her the safety and love and
energy of my own. and i wonder...can this place exist in the world i now inhabit?
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