When I was little, teachers and classmates told me I was smart. I heard this so out of proportion to all other topics that I concluded: This is all I am. This is all I have.
And of course there were books, shows, and movies that made it seem like that would be okay — that the smart girl sometimes wins, that intelligence bests riches. So I clung to being smart and never gave a second thought to branching out in the personal attribute pool.
It was only once I became a frumpy, bitter teenager, tired of accidentally overhearing less than flattering statements about myself, that I paid closer attention to those shows and movies. Sure, you can be smart, but you better damn well be pretty, too. You can be The Intelligent One, and people will love you, but when you take off your glasses, you need to look like Rachel Leigh Cook or Carly Pope.
True frumpy girls, it seems, get nowhere. Invest in contacts or — better yet — laser surgery.
There are exceptions, of course: if you're funny (I'm not), rich (I'm not), fashionable (I'm not), or just extraordinarily fun to be around (ba ha hahaha!), you might make do with being intelligent and ugly. I wasn't, didn't, and couldn't.
The next time I feel guilty about my late mother's voice ringing in my ears about how I'm too vain about my hair, or I spend too much time choosing an outfit — I'm just gonna tell her, "Sorry, Mami. We've got a ways to go yet, and I want to Be Not Nobody." And then I'll bust into that Vanessa Carlton song, and the ghost of my late mother, who was a pianist, will be so horrified that... okay, yeah.
Showing posts with label Mami. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mami. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Originally posted in 2007...
[But I STILL think about that damn plastic fork.]
Shortly before my mother died (not more than two weeks prior), my father, my mother, and I all sat in a row on the edge of my parents' TV, staring at a U.S. Open tennis match. A buff American was playing an equally buff Australian. My mother turned to us and asked, "Could you bring me a fork?"
A fork? Okay, sure. Whatever. My father gave me a look that said, "You heard your mother! Erm... or... well... make her happy?" I ran down to the kitchen and decided a plastic fork might be safer; she accepted the white, plastic fork with obvious, earnest gratitude. Relieved (and holding the fork upright in one hand), she began to nod off to sleep.
My father couldn't contain his curiosity and stopped her mid-drifting to ask her why she wanted the fork.
"In case the Brazilians win!" and she pointed at the TV.
A few nights ago, I was walking home from work, and I spotted a white, plastic fork by the side of the road. I make it a habit to pick up at least one piece of litter per walk, so that I can assuage my own ecological guilt by that one unit. Naturally, the fork found its way to my hand, and I in turn found myself thinking I must look really odd, wielding this shiny, white, plastic fork in the darkness of a Shetland night.
AND THEN I remembered.
And then I felt okay and brandished that fork all the way home. Because I really DO need it, in case the Brazilians win.
Shortly before my mother died (not more than two weeks prior), my father, my mother, and I all sat in a row on the edge of my parents' TV, staring at a U.S. Open tennis match. A buff American was playing an equally buff Australian. My mother turned to us and asked, "Could you bring me a fork?"
A fork? Okay, sure. Whatever. My father gave me a look that said, "You heard your mother! Erm... or... well... make her happy?" I ran down to the kitchen and decided a plastic fork might be safer; she accepted the white, plastic fork with obvious, earnest gratitude. Relieved (and holding the fork upright in one hand), she began to nod off to sleep.
My father couldn't contain his curiosity and stopped her mid-drifting to ask her why she wanted the fork.
"In case the Brazilians win!" and she pointed at the TV.
A few nights ago, I was walking home from work, and I spotted a white, plastic fork by the side of the road. I make it a habit to pick up at least one piece of litter per walk, so that I can assuage my own ecological guilt by that one unit. Naturally, the fork found its way to my hand, and I in turn found myself thinking I must look really odd, wielding this shiny, white, plastic fork in the darkness of a Shetland night.
AND THEN I remembered.
And then I felt okay and brandished that fork all the way home. Because I really DO need it, in case the Brazilians win.
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