Baby Girl

And when that beautiful baby girl is brought into this world, the hands start moving automatically, unconsciously putting pink bows in her hair, delicate clothes on her back, and weak thoughts in her heart. To the world she is a princess. We must protect her, shelter her from all that is evil, keep her where we can see her. Act like a lady. Look like a lady. Be seen and not heard. With every “she’s so beautiful” that baby girl is going to learn her place—a doll on a man’s shelf. Pink bows turning into pink lips, voiceless through the catcalls and the whistles and the propositions for a night. Delicate clothes now on the floor even though she said no. Weak thoughts, weak girl. Purpled eyes; fractured bones. Damaged goods. He needs another doll. Out with the old, in with the new. That’s what her husband will say when she turns 52. So listen up baby girl. You don’t have to be nice and quiet. I think you should be loud. Run. Don’t sit with your legs crossed. Don’t act like a lady. Here is armor. Take it. You are a warrior. Makeup is not my war paint, but maybe it will be yours. Baby girl, I’m going to teach you how to cook and sew and do laundry. But baby girl, I’m also going to teach you how to change a tire and find the North Star and use a hammer. I know you were born with a vagina and people are going to call you a woman and expect you to act like one too, whatever that means. But here’s the thing, baby girl. You are a person. With a brain and a heart and a body and a soul. You can be anything. A president or a prime minister or an astronaut or a doctor or a writer or the next Einstein. But I’ll be damned, baby girl, if I let you become another doll on a man’s shelf.

Sara Erkal, Blog Editor

All Images via Google Images


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