Pick-Me

I was ten years old and I'd never applied lipstick with my own hands. Couldn't walk in heels because I'd never worn them. Couldn't even tie ponytails with without my arms down and my mom running her own through my hair. The poise of this young girl is untouchable. Luckily I never had to face the demon of my girlish insecurities because it always masked itself in the makeup and pretty clothes of "I'm just a kid, I won't be judged"—that is until its nefarious face was unleashed in its evilest form: an Indian wedding. 

Before we go on a trip to India, I'm required to attend training sessions of a class of me and my brother. "Be polite, these people are our elders. Respect them. Talk to them so they feel good, don't be shy." But even though it's just a lecture class, I'm still the worst student because somehow I'm the one always pulled over for an involuntary side bar. "They're going to want to dress you up, so let them, don't resist. Let me see your clothes, you should have a variety. Why so many of the same shirts and pants? Pack some skirts, some jewelry..." I never did. Not after the first trip anyways when I saw every man in the same two outfits the entire week. I fought through tantrums and tears, sweats and shouts, and did everything I could in the mighty power of my teenage self to convince the world that I would never fully glamorize myself. 

My mission never proved successful. Even if I denied makeup, I was encased with a ten pound wig. I always admired and even took pride in my beautiful Indian woman genes of long, thick, dark black hair. It's not that I would never want to partake in these simple pleasantries, but I just wanted to do it at my own pace. Can I not learn makeup in my 20s? No, I should learn how to be a woman before I become one. As soon as wigs, lehengas, heavy purple-ear-inducing jewelry was forced upon me at such a young age, I've been bitter with it. Now I have to prove that girlishness is foolishness.

I feel as if this concept is especially misunderstood in modern times with the notion of a "pick-me" girl. Most girls in fact go through this phase at some point in their lives of trying to be anything but like the "other girls"; with society constantly telling us who to be, we lose our sense of self. Sadly, this perception is normalized as toxic and attention-seeking in any situation. 

My mom was disappointed with my naive and rude behavior to say the least. My relatives gossiped about one of the only girls in the extended family not knowing how to be one, and I was left with a deep hatred of beauty standards, but mostly myself. I still struggle with this internal tugging of the heart strings, but as I grow older in high school, I'm starting to come to terms with myself. Just last trip, I picked out my own earrings, my own dress, and kept myself content even when the rest of my family wasn't. A young girl shouldn't grow up walking on a twenty-foot ladder. If offered even a stepping stool, she'll learn to climb on her own. 

All she needs is a little time, and the world just needs a little patience.