Third Writing Prize Winner –
Winter 2018 – 2019
is
AIMEE CARLSON
of Granger, Indiana – USA
ODD WO-MAN OUT
Yesterday, I was described as “different” because of my choice of hobbies and interests. The individual came back to me later to apologize. I was caught off guard because it never occurred to me that being “different” was a derogatory description of character. In fact, I look at it as a high form of flattery.
I suppose I’ve always been “different.” My parents encouraged this of me. I tried hobby after hobby and twirled around the living room in a pink tutu and cleats because I didn’t quite know if I was a “girlie girl” or a tomboy. I wore my hair long and then I chopped it short. I wore dresses and jerseys and everything in between. Boys didn’t interest me until later than most (and often they still don’t). I was too busy learning who I was to care what other people thought of me; or at least not yet. I didn’t even realize that I was odd.
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I remember the first time I learned this fact about myself. I didn’t exactly don my tinfoil hat and lay in the middle of a crop circle to call my Mother-Ship to me (though this does sound like a good time). But I did jump into a muddy, disgusting lake while still in my cheerleading uniform because I liked the feel of the slimy mud between my toes and there were tadpoles I wanted to catch. I was 10. My “friends” looked at me with rather disgusted expressions and told me I was weird. It hurt my feelings and I went home and cried. My mom did what moms do. She dried my tears, after making me shower, lectured me about Florida lakes, and these slightly risky animals called alligators that lurk in them. Then, she gave me some ice cream and said, “you just be you.”
And I did just that. Other girls were described as “pretty,” “beautiful,” and “put together.” I continued to be described as “different,” “quirky,” and “odd.” I was fine with that. Mom and Dad never said a word when I slept too late to do my hair for school. They never compared me to other girls who came to high school flawless every day with their hair and makeup perfected at the age of 16. They didn’t take any particular pride in me dressing up for picture day or even bothering to get out of the bathing suit that I lived in seven days a week. They were used to the permanent chlorine scent that set into my hair and clothes and they never missed a swim meet, a water polo match, or mocked me for the bad attempts at water ballet by myself in between practices. My actions frequently invoked stares and whispers from the other parents but my parents seemed immune to it. If they were embarrassed, they never showed it.
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No, what my parents noticed and took pride in was that I laughed, frequently and loudly. I had fun no matter what I was doing. I was adventurous and tried new things. I hula hooped to no music in my own form of interpretive dance on the sand while the other kids played volleyball at the beach. I was a free spirit. My parents didn’t constantly tell me I was “pretty.” What they told me was that I was “kind.” That made me want to be kind. I cared deeply for fellow human beings and I hurt when they hurt.
My parents were proud when I volunteered and showed compassion toward those who desperately needed kindness in their lives. My mom beamed when I came to the school where she was teaching to be a stand-in “mom” on parent day for a little girl whose mom couldn’t be bothered to show up. I knew what it was like to feel like the odd one out and I didn’t want this little girl to feel that way. I was “kind” because Mom and Dad told me I was and that is what my parents praised me for.
I looked in the mirror today and realized that I have gained some crow’s feet by my eyes along with some wrinkles. I’ve learned that gravity has doubled on the earth since my youth and is slowly pulling my body with it. The body I had when I was 17 exists only in my memory and a few glorious pictures to remind me that everything once fit into place and that the only dimples I had in my cheeks was on my face. Yes, looks are slowly fading and, like every other girl on the planet, it bothers me.
Every girl I know struggles as the reflection in the mirror slowly changes and we change our daily routines to try and turn back time. But, despite the unwelcomed stretch marks, dimples, and an extra layer of fat that I’ve gained just in time for bathing suit season, I’m still happy. I’m still confident because my looks are not all there is to me. I’ve watched those very friends who were described as “pretty” all their lives and they struggle with depression, anxiety, and finding their sense of self-worth. To them, their looks were the most important thing about them because that’s what they were told all of their lives. There is so much more to them but they struggle to see it because everyone else failed to see it in them or, at least failed to tell them what they saw beyond their pretty face.
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This saddens me but it also makes me grateful that I had parents who taught me there was more to me than my appearance. They let me be weird. They let me be me. They shaped my vision of who I strive to be. I will hopefully live long enough to continue to watch my looks fade. I hope to be wrinkled and gray like the rest of the elderly. But when I relive the past for future generations, it won’t be to tell the story of a Homecoming Queen or Miss Florida.
I will tell the story of that one time my mom and I drove 12 hours round trip in the snow for a ghost hunt, the time I dove with sharks, and the time I went dog sledding overnight and stayed in a yurt. I played in the rain and sunbathed nude on the top of the Stratosphere. I will tell young people to be kind and to get involved in the community and to make this sometimes disgusting world a better place, starting with their neighbors. So, for those parents out there with daughters, remember that your kids become what you tell them they are. The next time you start to tell your daughter that she’s pretty, think again and tell her she’s smart, strong, and kind. Tell her she’s “different.”
