Pretty

Pretty

I don't think there has ever been a time where I haven't been called some variation of the word. Cute, beautiful, sexy, hot: they all mean the same thing when you get down to brass tax. They all mean you are visually appealing for everyone to look at. And it seems to be the only thing everyone cares about.

We like pretty things. They are easy on the eyes and can stir a variety of emotions. Lust, pride, affection, joy. There are negative emotions pretty things spark to. Jealousy, insecurity, intimidation, and panic. But despite this, everyone wants a pretty thing or wants to be a pretty thing.

They don't like it when pretty things talk back though. They hate it when they move differently than everyone when they talk differently and enjoy things that they shouldn't. Worst of all they don't like pretty things who don't see they are pretty things.

I remember being a child and first learning I wasn't going to fit the mold of pretty things. I didn't want to stay home with and be a wife with a husband who worked while I cared for children. My grandmother didn't understand. It was apparent I would be pretty and able to attract anyone I wanted to with the right teachings and tenacity. But I didn't want that. I wanted to be a scientist at the time. All I cared about was swimming in the ocean for the first time and petting a dolphin.

That didn't stop the manner's lessons. The fake dinner parties to practice being a hostess. It didn't stop the introductions to friends with sons. None of it stopped even after I started wearing boys' clothes to hid my body, which I was told was a perfect figure—tall and slender. It didn't stop when I started eating junk food all the time, I didn't gain weight and just gained comments from my father saying I would. And it didn't change when I cut my hair short, I just looked more appealing to the boys—something wild and untamed.

Something to be conquered.

Something to be put in its place.

Something to be broken.

I gave up on trying to get them to stop calling me pretty.

So, I tried to get them to look at something else instead. Something to prove that I was more. I did spots. I did well in school. I created art. I acted in plays. I sang. I sewed. I did charities. I worked hard at my jobs.

I was now pretty and cultured. It wasn't exactly a win but it was better than nothing. I was happy to see my friends ask me for questions about homework. To get leads in plays. Hours at work. Letters of recommendations. I had setbacks with more boys who just wanted me to sit pretty and shine like a trophy in a case, but I quickly put them in their place.

And then I graduated.

Then I had to start all over again.

Every semester. It was the same things again and again. Girls didn't want to talk to me because I seemed snobbish. Because when your pretty you can't have social anxiety. You have no reason to be self-conscious because your pretty. You can't be human because you're pretty.

The boys were a little better. More mature and willing to at least start the conversation... until they confessed. Because while I was talking Shakespeare and Atwood; they weren't listening to the words out of my mouth so much as imagine what it would be like to see me without the high collared shirts and long shorts.

How did I explain to them that I didn't care for gender? How did I explain I didn't care about sex? How did I explain that all I cared about were hugs, and cuddles, and nights watching Disney on the couch? How did I explain that instead of making out I just wanted to discuss the illustrations in a graphic novel?

Because when you're pretty you can't be asexual. And being Panromantic? That just means I'm down for a threesome right?

I found a boy who loves me. He accepts these the best he can and he always tells me I'm pretty. That I'm too good for him. Sometimes he tells me how smart I am, but mostly he just laughs and rolls his eyes when I dress in drag—refusing to look me in the eyes because I have, even for a moment, shattered the illusion of pretty.

I like dressing in drag. I'm not a boy. I know I'm a girl and I like being a girl. But looking like a boy, even for a brief moment means I don't have people looking at me like I'm pretty. At least not in the same way. Instead, I'm beautiful because I'm brave. I'm talented with makeup and I'm a good actress for acting so masculine. I'm not really changing much though. I'm just being myself and not having to listen to the snide remarks for not sitting up straight or sitting with my legs open. I can flirt and tease more easily too because it's charming in drag rather than intimidating like it is coming from a pretty girl.

It isn't enough though, because at night when I take off the wig, the waistcoat, and makeup, I'm still a pretty girl.

And now I've been a pretty girl for so long. I'm scared to not be a pretty girl anymore.

Because if I'm not a pretty girl anymore...

Then what am I?