Mirror, Mirror

Georgia Spicer was in the section of the Pejepscot Historical Association where the embroidery artifacts were stored. It was a large collection, because so many women had been very accomplished at using a needle and a thread and their children or grandchildren had seen fit to donate their work to the association’s museum. There was a lot that still needed to be written up. Then she heard the door open and clatter shut, and quickly went downstairs to speak with the person who had just entered.

There was a woman of about seventy-five standing quite erect by the main desk. There was nobody at the desk, because the person who usually was there to receive visitors was on a lunch break. Georgia paused for a moment. The woman had short, well-cut hair that was entirely white. Despite the color, she looked oddly youthful and alert; there was nothing fragile about the woman, whose small frame gave the impression that she would not hesitate if she needed to act.

The visitor was slowly and carefully scanning the reception area of the association. She almost seemed to be looking for something, or someone, but stopped when she noticed Georgia. Her smile was genuine, and she had a very alert, intelligent gaze. She probably never missed anything, she was just that serious - and observant. It wasn’t normal to decide all those things before a single word had been exchanged, but Georgia felt they were accurate, and moved toward the older woman to greet her.

“Hello. I hope I didn’t interrupt your work. I won’t detain you for long. but I’ve brought a few things for the Association’s archives. You’ll most likely need to go through them to determine if you want them, and if you don’t, I’ll come back to retrieve them so they won’t be in your way.” The woman spoke quickly, simply, clearly. There was no pretense about her, but she was firm in wanting to have the things she had brought considered for the collection.

Georgia introduced herself and asked the visitor what her name was.

“I am Rosa Elena Niles. I’ve come to leave you a number of manuscripts and articles. They’re things I’ve written over the years, and they might be of value.”

Georgia would later chide herself for her assumption that the woman had probably brought in some recipes and diaries, which were always of interest for the museum’s archives because they were women’s history. They had gotten a lot of them via donations. However, as promised, the woman - Rosa Elena was a very pretty name, unusual, she thought - did not stay long. She left the two canvas totes she was carrying on top of the work table, and left, indicating she hoped to hear soon from the Pejepscot Historical Association.

Once she heard the door clatter shut again, Georgia went to the totes and made a note to return them to their owner, just out of courtesy. She began to remove the contents, which were well organized, with titles and dates. She was a bit worried that Rosa Elena might have further use for the materials, but that was because it didn’t occur to her that everything was already in digital form and that the donations were comprised of handwritten drafts. 

Georgia stopped at one book in particular because its outer covering was made of a suede-like fabric and appeared to be hand sewn. It was lovely to hold. She opened the front cover of the Reflections. The title wasn’t much, but she read on.

***

My name is Jennie June, just like the woman who was an author and founder of the GFWC, the General Federation of Women’s Clubs. This was her pseudonym, and it’s mine, too, because I’m also a writer. Jennie also organized Sorosis, which promoted professional opportunities for women. This was all around the middle of the nineteenth century and shortly after.

I just wanted it to be clear why I am using this name, which isn’t my real one. I admired Jennie June, and will tell you her real name was Jane Cunningham Croly. I am not going to tell you my real name, because knowing it isn’t that important. What’s important is the story I’m going to tell, so I ask you to ignore the prolific use of the first person. It’s intended to get you close to the feelings behind this article. I wrote it but decided not to publish it, because I was worried readers would think it is a story about me. I can assure you it is not, but hope you will read it anyway.

Georgia felt compelled to continue reading. Rosa Elena’s - well, Jennie June’s - handwriting was the same, but the color of ink had changed from black to a shade of dark green. That alone was uncommon, that greenish color. The writer, Jennie, continued:

I have just discovered something new about my past. This not only changes how I might remember an important moment. It changes how I remember everything from years ago, as well as the present. It might even change how I remember the future.

I was an ugly child.

That’s the truth. That is what I believed. However, I never told anybody I felt that way and thus nobody could ever deny what I knew. I lived with my belief as if it were a religion, and was stoic. I avoided mirrors like the plague.

I wasn’t pretty, and that mattered to me. Even my name was unattractive: Rosa Elena. It was foreign, because my mother used to read books from the many countries she could never visit and thought it sounded exotic. Its only effect on me was embarrassment when people tried to pronounce it. My mother could roll her Rs, and so could I, but nobody else could,. So, well, they laughed when I said my name. They sometimes asked if I was a Mexican in disguise, but that wasn’t funny at all, not to me at least.

I thought - no, I was certain - that I didn’t deserve to be pretty or cute because we were poor. My mother had been pretty, but I knew I didn’t look like her. Being poor tends to knock the beauty out of people.

I tried to make little improvements on my appearance: discrete makeup, lightening my hair, sleeping on rollers if necessary. (Most young women can’t begin to imagine what that was like, how it required real dedication to being pretty.) I watched my weight, even from an early age. At times, I was afraid I weighed an extra four or five pounds. A few years later I would try to remedy that by following a really strict diet, which meant not eating very much. Which meant bordering on anorexia, all for a good cause.

I tried to have perfect-fitting clothes. They were often handmade, although that wasn’t too big a problem when my mother made them because she could really sew well. The ones I eventually made were on the rustic side of style. At least I always tried to be very careful about matching things perfectly. I did develop an eye for color and pattern, but some of my choices fell wide of their mark, I must admit.

I really tried to be different, to fight against what I knew I’d inherited.

However, nothing worked. I still had my odd-sounding, unpronounceable name, and stood out, but in the wrong way. That I knew.

In high school, I thought it was a miracle that I had a boyfriend or two, that anybody would ask me to dance at a sock hop, or to go to the prom. The guys obviously hadn’t noticed how little I had to offer. Remember, brains did not count.

When the boyfriend I loved the most (well, the only one I ever loved or thought I did) dropped me, I just shriveled up. However, I knew I had deserved it. What did I have to offer a good-looking guy whose family was well-off? Nothing.

In college, things didn’t change much. Why would they? There wasn’t much chance of suddenly becoming attractive, short of extensive plastic surgery, which of course I could never afford. I was pleasantly resigned to what life had given me, as little as that was.

That’s the truth as I knew it for years. And rather than go into detail about what I’ve done with my life, I will go straight to the point, give you the reason behind this exercise in reminiscing: I found some old photos in an album that was in turned stored in a box. My mother, who never called me pretty because that wasn’t a concern of hers, had put the album together with old photographs she’d taken of me along with some I’d given or sent to her. 

I stopped cleaning out my mother’s home, the place I’d grown up, to leaf through the album. One photo caught my attention more than the others. There I was, on a small boat overseas, facing the salted, sunny breeze as we crossed the harbor. My expression was joyous yet subdued. My hair was nicely cut and fit into the wind. That hair had always been unruly, too curly, something to be ashamed of. I looked again, though, because I had just seen something for the first time.

I wasn’t ugly. My profile was nicely formed and even with just half of my smile visible, it was a nice smile. I was just a normal person! Not ugly, normal. Not homely. Pretty didn’t matter. All I had ever wanted was normal, just a tad better than plain. Actually, plain and normal are pretty much the same. There it was! Normal me. A complete surprise.

I then began to flip through the other pages with new eyes, and was increasingly amazed as I pondered photo after old photo. I definitely had not been ugly. My vain little self could now rest in peace, knowing my appearance hadn’t condemned me to an eternal hell. As I kept flipping and looking, another realization washed over me: It wasn’t just that I wasn’t ugly, in fact, I wasn’t even plain. I had actually been pretty, although how that was defined wasn’t immediately clear.

I was stunned. More than that: What was I going to do with that knowledge? Obviously, you don’t - or shouldn’t - go around saying you were a pretty child. It sounds like you’re saying “I was cute and I still am...” There was no way I could say that.

After that, I suddenly felt both very sad and very angry. All those years of self-hating...

Why and where did I learn those things? That was the important question. The answer lay in books read, magazines skimmed, advertisements seen everywhere. It wasn’t rocket science, as they say. The world had taught me what beauty was, and I didn’t have it. However, by going through the old album, I did experience a revelation, which is worth sharing...

The world had been wrong in trying to pass its false definition of pretty off on me. I had been stupid as hell to believe it. More than that: I had been mindless, thinking any of that mattered. Mindless, self-absorbed, gutless, way too accepting. Pretty was an empty word, and I threw it away the minute I closed the album. But what was I supposed to do with that revelation, which was coupled with the knowledge that I was now way past the age when people call a girl or a woman pretty? I had the answer, fortunately.

I decided to be attractive (pretty was in the garbage now), but would define it as it should be defined. It would have nothing to do with my name, my graying - oops, white - hair, my financial status. It was all in my head and at last the pitiful little wannabe I once was, had been for so long, was banished from memory. Sweet little misfit, you were such a comfort, you were the reason things didn’t go the way they should. You were the cause of the hurdles I had to overcome through the years.

I am bored with you and your childish ideas. Ugly Rosa Elena, I have rapped you good with my magic wand and you are gone. In your place is the new Rosa Elena, white-haired, wrinkled, dressed very plainly, and very wicked. Wicked in the good sense, of course. You found what you wanted and now do not feel the need to avoid mirrors. When you see one, and see yourself, ‘pretty’ never comes to mind. I have everything I need and that word isn’t part of it. 

Now I walk down the street, or into a room, not apologizing inwardly for what I look like. Nobody cares, nobody notices. Now I walk, grateful for two working legs, a straight back, a recent haircut that’s as short as possible, no styling needed. Grateful, too, that I have my original teeth, retirement, an old car with no monthly payments, and a little house with a mortgage I can afford. Grateful for a lot of other things, but you get the idea.

You see, I’ve decided to use my own definitions for what matters and am now more beautiful, more attractive, more ravishing than ever before in all the years I’ve lived. Don’t look for that on the outside, because it’s not there. Look for it, if you will, in what I say, what I write, and how I treat you. If those things aren’t well done, then, yes, I am ugly. 

Hold up a mirror for me to see my reflection. It’s an aging face, true, and a wiser one than I had hoped for so long ago. I am happy to have it.

Wisdom, you and I have places to go, things to do, people to meet. Let’s not waste a minute.

***

Georgia Spicer was silent. She thought of the woman who had donated her words to others and, now, to the Pejepscot Historical Association. She wasn’t sure yet where the slender volume she had just read should be archived, what classification it would receive - essay, diary, letter? - but she wasn’t going to worry about that for the moment.

She walked over to the nearest mirror and took a long, serious look at her reflection. She thought Rosa Elena Niles would want her to do that.