Softness.

My first encounter with what it meant to be feminine was in the second grade. There was a girl in my class, I think her name was Christina. The memory I have of her was when she was standing next to her dad, holding his hand. She was wearing a nice matching outfit, a rose-colored short-sleeved top over matching pants with a cool little strappy belt around her waist, I think the pattern was soft stripes of rose and lavender that, when blended, created a pale blue. This was really something to witness for me, a little girl whose only fashion references came from hand-me-downs and Goodwill. Christina was wearing a deliberately chosen and planned outfit. She was very feminine with her wavy, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair that had some light layering and a barrette – I can’t remember if it was one or two – holding some of her hair back to delicately frame her face. It was the first day of school and I remember the two of us just standing there staring at each other for an extended moment, locking eyes – not judging, just studying. I was transfixed by this image of Christina with her father who was holding holding her hand while she took a moment to hold his with both of hers. I was transfixed because I had no memory of this gesture or experience in my own life. My Dad chose personal freedom over a father’s responsibility when I was two, so I had no place to organize this new information and it was just so unexpected – it was a possibility I didn’t know existed. As I look back and replay the image of Christina and her father, what I’m calculating (but didn’t know at the time) is how soft she was – how soft she could be – knowing that she was supported and protected in her vulnerability that day. My own mom was the father figure in my house, in spite of her best efforts to remarry someone who might step into that role and provide a helping hand. She was a proud fighter and survivor, working her ass off to provide for three kids without the help of her own family or child support. My mom was not there to support or protect me in my vulnerability that day because she couldn’t be. Christina became a vision for me. She represented a whole world of safety and surplus that was foreign to me. I envied, even then, how soft she could be.