We are born screaming. We are born crying and kicking, trying to fight the entire world just to breathe. We are born strong, inquisitive, squinting against the harsh white of the hospital walls. Then we are taken home to rooms doused in pink. We are dressed in pink dresses, given pink hairbands. We are drowned in pink so much that we begin to resent it. But to that later.
As toddlers we are fluid. We play with Barbies and Hotwheels alike. We clamber around and climb trees, we fall and skin our knees and howl with pain. One Halloween our shoes sparkle beneath us as we avoid the coos of "what a pretty princess you are!" Another we grip the plastic sword that completes our pirate costume desperately, ready to fight some of the scarier house displays. We live for adventure and we seek thrills. We cry freely and often. We are young, but whole.
As preteens, we are divided. Lumps form on our chests, and we are not allowed outside alone. We watch our brothers run around outside, watch our opportunities slip away. "Maybe if we were less girly" we think. Enter the "tomboy" phase. We violently reject pink, and Barbies and Disney and softness. We shut ourselves off from our parents. We are inaccessible. We are hidden behind shells. We reject our femininity, convinced it is hurting us.
As teenagers, we are uncertain. We are degraded for being too girly, but expected to be alluring. Forced to laugh politely at uncomfortable comments by grown men. Feeling reserved, afraid of our own bodies. Afraid of men. Afraid. Afraid of the word "too." "Too" smart. "Too" pretty. "Too" loud. "Too" feminine. Shunned into silence, obedience.
As women, we are soft. Unabashedly soft. We have learned to embrace our soft skin and our soft hearts. We love pink again. It is a soft color. We love our bodies. They are soft and resilient. Sensual and unforgiving. Powerful. We are powerful. We find power in our softness. We defiantly reject uncomfortable comments by grown men. We fight the world to breathe pink fire. We are strong.
