Being Beautiful
I was never the pretty one. I was not identified with words like pretty, beautiful or cute by my parents. Grandma called me all the wonderful things, I believed her. When she died, so did those words of affirmation. Crazy frizzy curly dark brown hair, uni-brow of wonders, braces at one point, no fashion sense, talent-less with makeup, growing nose of power, and no sense of purpose. If you ever have the chance to see my sisters, they’re quite pretty girls. People noticed that, told them often, and didn’t notice that they didn’t tell me. I just lived that way, it wasn’t painful, it was just how it was. My sisters are pretty, my mom is pretty, I just thought I was not. I was 16 the first time I had to face being called beautiful (since Grandma) by someone that I was inclined to believe. He made me wonder if I was, because he simply wouldn’t let me think otherwise. When he died, the wonder faded back into whatever it was before. It wasn’t until I was 20 that I met someone who...