“Pretty; Not Smart”

I was born April 5^th, 1971, I think. Akin to Barbie, I was “well-proportioned with blue eyes and a blank look.” Like my mother, I was “a fair-haired girl with a vacant stare.” This was my beginning, at least that is what I was told.

On the rare occasion that my father spoke to me, I was informed that my mother “must have screwed around” because I looked nothing like him, and “it’s a good thing you’re cute because you sure are dumb.”

My memories of him were an empty spot in the bed each morning, a dirty breakfast dish in the sink, and a royal recliner reserved for him throughout the day. In the evening, he was to be served drinks, dinner, M.A.S.H, and silence.

It was said that my mother was quite beautiful when she was younger, “believe it or not.” Apparently, “her blond hair and busty chest were good enough” for my father.

My memories of her were a closed bedroom door, swollen bare feet beneath a lurid moo-moo, or passed out on the couch snoring next to her seventh Seagram’s and 7(up).

My older sister was either an escape artist or a ghost. We shared a room, and I prayed the noises I heard in the dark corners at night were her. In the morning, however, her bed was always empty, and she was rarely to be seen by anyone but me.

My older brother was mean. Luckily, he rarely left his room. The blue glow emanating from under his bedroom door had a weirdly calming effect on me. It meant he was subdued, for now.

I, the third child in a family that only wanted two, was pretty; not smart. I wanted to climb trees, get dirty, and play sports but was reminded that pretty girls should not desire such things. I wanted to be a medical examiner when I grew up, like Quincy, but, once again, I was informed of the impossibility of such folly. To begin with, I was “not smart enough to be a doctor,” and, to end with, I was “born to breed not to read.”

My father, sister (if I really had one), and brother were busy. They were intelligent, important people who had intelligent, important things to do each day. On the other hand, my mother was neither intelligent nor important, but she had been attractive once and already achieved her highest calling. She married my dad and had children (even one more than she should have).

Understandably, my family could not be bothered with the care and keeping of me. I was expected to get myself up (if I wanted to), make myself breakfast (if wanted to), and walk myself to kindergarten (if I wanted to). I was used to climbing out of my crib and eating dry cereal from the box, but I had no idea what kindergarten was or why I should go there, so I didn’t. Most school days, I climbed trees in the nearby woods and got dirty, instead.

So, from my first day of school, until the day I was expelled from senior high, I did what was expected of me. I was pretty; not smart.

At fourteen, I found a man (a boy actually) to marry and have children with. We should not have married; it would never work out. At least, that is what I was told.

I thought he was handsome and smart, but I started to question the latter when he thought I was pretty AND smart (which everyone knew to be untrue). He thought I could go to college or achieve whatever I wanted and told me to try. (Maybe, he was just handsome.)

Years, miles, and a few children later, I realized we were poor. I was told that should make me sad (but I was not).

A few more years, miles, and children later, I was told my husband was “too white trash to go to Harvard Law School,” (even though he was already attending), and I was “too dumb to homeschool our five children” (even though I already was).

Fast forward many more years and miles (but no more children) later, and here I sit, at my desk in my beautiful home while my youngest son (almost 18) studies for the SAT downstairs (he wants to go to MIT). Another son prepares for a job interview before heading off to his college courses, and yet another son (college graduate) and my only daughter are at their dream jobs. My eldest son (Stanford MBA graduate) and his beautiful bride (who earns even more money than he does, and we could not be prouder of) follow their amazing careers and dreams.

Thanks to my husband of thirty-four years (even though I still see him as the boy I fell in love with) and my children, I realize now that a lot of what I was told was not true.

Like Barbie, I was branded into someone else’s idea of perfect, put into a box, and sold to the world. Like her, I was never asked who I wanted to be; I was told who I would be. The world would interact with me on its terms (not mine).

My dad’s idea of a perfect girl was pretty (not smart), so, to him, I was. My mom’s idea of perfect was two children, so, to her, I was not a third. My brother’s idea of perfect was being smarter and stronger than me, so I pretended that was true whenever he was around. My sister’s idea of perfect was not being a part of our family, so I tried to be more like Skipper.

Like Barbie, I knew my role. Remain pretty when the world wanted something nice to look at; hidden, when the world did not want to play; weak and dumb, when the world wanted to feel stronger and smarter; different, when the world wanted someone other than me.

I thought I was born April 5^th, 1971. I was told that I was a buxom, fair-haired girl with a vacant stare. That my steel blue eyes were the product of my mother’s infidelity, and, of course, I was pretty; not smart. That was who I was, at least that is what I was told.

Then, one day, a man (a boy actually) took me out of the box I had been put into, stared into my steel blue eyes, and asked, “Do you even want to be Malibu Barbie? You could be any Barbie you want to be: Homeschool Mom Barbie, Author Barbie, Medical Examiner Barbie. Matter of fact, you could be so much better than Barbie. You could be you, Pretty Smart Amy.”