Fair or Free

Soft, Skinny, Pretty

The first time I remember asking my mother if I was "skinny",

I would have been six or seven.

She gave me a shocked look,

Then replied, "No sweetie, you're slender."

After that, I lifted up my shirt, inspected my midsection, and then decided I was satisfied with her answer.

Now, I didn't really understand completely what this question truly meant,

The subtext of it,

One, because my parents had tried to shelter me as well as they could from what I now know as "society's standards",

And two because of my younger self's lack of understanding of social cues.

But my classmates were well aware of these.

And being my socially awkward self,

I was trying to fit in so desperately that these ideas wore off on me like cheap ink on a white shirt.

This was never a concern again for me up until Grade 4,

When the girls in my class started using scales and curling irons,

As instruments of self-perfection,

And the boys in my class started to set standards of what they found "hot",

And calling girls that didn't fit that Barbie doll image "Fat", "ugly" and the rest of those petty insults .

Considering how I neither owned nor knew how to operate either instrument,

I was subsequently sorted in to the "not" category.

This bothered me.

A lot.

After that, I became obsessed with my appearance,

Nice clothes,

Early attempts at braids,

Anything that would make a guy like me,

Because at this point, almost all my friends had had a reciprocated crush.

Except me.

These days though, I could honestly not care less if a guy likes me or hates me,

But my appearance still matters a lot to me.

But how can it not,

Considering the world we live in,

Where girls are taught to one, always look cute, and two, never speak unless spoken to, before we even start going to school,

And where finding someone to belong to is one of the first thing a little girl dreams of,

A handsome prince on a white horse coming to sweep the perfect princess off her feet and save her,

Because god forbid she's a strong, independent woman who can save herself.

And how can it not,

Thinking about how there's a pretty girl with big eyes and a long, straight, blond mane who's thickness rivals a lion's on my left,

And a petite, curvy, Mauritian gymnast to my right,

Calling me pretty after insulting me,

A Band-Aid on a knife wound,

As if it'll stop the bleeding,

One to many times to believe them.