Hello, friend.
We all have moments in our lives that act as arrowheads, pointing us in the way we should go. They’re sprinkled throughout the years and decades. Sometimes they are a gentle word whispered by a lover. A friendly suggestion echoed from a peer. A piece of instruction administered by an authority figure. Sometimes they are in the eyes of your child, in the lights of a city skyline, or etched into a verse of poetry. I wonder, friend, what kinds of arrowheads mark your journey?
When I think about the course my life has taken so far, these moments glow like a constellation of stars. Individual occurrences invisibly connected. I think of one moment in particular.
I was about fifteen or sixteen years old. Shy. Hopeful. Self-conscious about my wide “birthing hips”. I don’t remember what I was wearing or honestly where I was. I don’t even remember who I was speaking to. Except that he was 1) a man. 2) probably in his mid-fifties. But I could be wrong, age-wise. Adults always look about 5-10 years older when you’re a kid.
Anyways, my family had introduced me to him (okay, so maybe we were at some church event?) and he asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. Just your average kid-friendly, ice-breaker question.
“I’m a writer.” I told him, confidently. “I want to continue being a writer.”
I don’t remember the man’s face. But I remember the expression he wore and the tone of his voice.
“You’re much too pretty to be a writer. Why not be an actress?”
First of all, creepy. Secondly, nobody asked.
The question seared my consciousness. As I looked into this decrepit man’s eyes, something within me shifted. A quiet sort of defiance began to take shape.
I don’t remember what I said in return. I probably uttered what passed for a laugh and steered the conversation down a different avenue.
But that stupid comment stuck with me, much like the scar on the left side of my face.
And what’s funny and a little pathetic is that this would not be the first time I’d hear such a sentiment spoken. I began to dissect the meaning behind it.
Were writers considered ugly in the adult world?
Were pretty girls expected to become actresses?
What made someone pretty?
What made someone ugly?
These ponderings left me mentally bereft. But the defiance grew. Now, I realize that shift was a decision. I didn’t want to be defined by my physical appearance (because Lord knows these hips are not it). That man probably thought he was changing my mind, but what he didn’t realize was that he’d thrown topsoil onto the grave. There was no going back now.
I was going to be the smartest girl in the room, not the prettiest!
I was going to make sure my wit was sharper than my jawline!
This might’ve been a little too ambitious for a teenager, but I digress.
Thankfully, I’m continually learning (more like wildly chasing) the art of balance.
There’s honestly nothing wrong with external beauty. It’s the damn stigmas that are attached to it. However, I will say that I am a firm believer in everyone experiencing an “ugly phase”. How else are we to develop our other skills/talents? How else are we to capture the attention of that sultry, dark-haired man/woman (whatever you’re into) in the back of that East Side bar?
As the great philosophers and Clifford the Big Red Dog proclaim* – beauty fades. This is not so with fart jokes! Keep them laughing! Learn to be quick on your feet (mentally)!
Looking back, I am grateful that old creep said what he said.
If there’s one thing I could change about that exchange, it would’ve been my response.
“Shut the fuck up, old man!”
Take note, young ladies.
If an older man tells you that you’re too pretty (or worse, not pretty enough) to do whatever the fuck you’re wanting to do, shut that shit down with “Stfu, old man!”.
All my love!
M’wah!

*Clifford the Big Red Dog did NOT proclaim that. I do not own Clifford the Big Red Dog.