Pretty Boy

I don't remember the first time I noticed him. He was always just there, waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. And as the five year old, friendly kindergartner I was, I smiled and I waved, and I invited him in.

I never really noticed much difference between us. He liked the same things that I liked: Barbie dolls (yes, boys can like Barbie dolls too), the colour pink (yes, boys can like the colour pink too), and dressing up like Sailor Moon and Snow White (yes, boys can dress up like this too) on Halloween, smiling as our pillowcases filled with chocolate and candy and sugar crashes to come.

We got along well, he and I. He wasn't a stereotypical boy. No...he loved Barbies just as much as he loved Batman. He didn't care what people thought, he just lived his life as he pleased.

When I turned six years old and moved to another house, with different people and different rules, he retreated a little. His smiles faded over time, he was quieter and kept to himself, often watching from a distance as I played with my Barbie dolls, and watched my Disney movies, and dressed like a superhero-princess. Sometimes, he would approach me and ask, "Why don't you dress up like a prince for a change?" And I would laugh, and his face would redden with embarrassment, and he'd go back to slouching in the shadows, silent.

Looking back, I'm angry at myself for laughing at him. He was on to something, he really was. I guess I had just been so influenced by the people I now lived with, my new friends, and my community in general to truly see what he was getting at. And as a result, I pushed him away.

My caregivers taught me a narrow narrative: you, as a girl, must wear dresses. You must care about your appearance, more so than men should. Cross your legs, sit up straight, wax your body hair. And the more I conformed to these expectations, the less the boy interacted with me. He would sometimes sit beside me as I was waiting for the wax to melt, and whisper that I didn't have to go through with this. That I was okay just the way I was. That, in fact, I was better now than I would be later. But, at the insistence of the people around me, I shook my head, and watched his shoulders slump as he shuffled away, defeated.

This boy, who hadn't cared what others had thought of himself or I earlier on, started to notice peoples' reactions to him. As the years flew by, and I stared longingly into the men's section at Le Chateau, he became nervous. When he caught me staring at the men's dress shirts, he'd tug on my sleeve and try to divert my attention with a sparkly black dress. The nonchalant gleam that had previously shone in his eyes was dulling, and although he didn't mind the dresses, I could tell that he longed to try on a suit.

When my guardians raised their self-righteous hands to me, the boy and I discovered the strangest thing. The hand print left on my face? It could be found on his face, too.

This phenomena startled me. In my shock, I would refuse to acknowledge him when he spoke to me. When I went shopping for my first bra, he was there, whispering in my ear, that I didn't belong here. That something wasn't right. And although I never responded to him, I often found myself agreeing.

I trained my mind to tune out his whispers, his insistence that my chest was too big. Nobody really knew about him, but I received the message loud and clear: don't talk to him. Don't let him sway you. If you accept him and what he is saying, then you're a freak. An outcast. Oh, I was already such an outcast. I didn't want to cause any more trouble with my peers.

He found other ways to taunt me. My shoulders were too round; they were supposed to be broader, he claimed. That dress looked nice on me, but a suit and tie would look much better.

I rebelled against him. Whenever I could, I would apply layer upon layer of sparkling eyeshadow, jet black eyeliner and mascara to my already voluminous eyelashes. I'd add a bit of bright red lipstick and look over to him in triumph, only to lose my chance at victory at the sight of his own make up, on his own face, red lipstick framing his sparkling-white teeth as he grinned back at me. He suggested I try the purple eyeshadow next time. It complemented our eyes better than the mahogany and peach I had applied that day.