June 29, 2012

No pink, no cry.








I grew up with a bunch of boys around, having only older brothers and male cousins by that time and age. My games were always involving G.I. Joes and Dragon Ball actions figures, or jurassic park or ghostbusters or comic trading cards. Playing barbies was something I did, but mostly with myself, for there were no other girls to play with.

Since my baby sister was born with a strong case of asthma, my mom dedicated her day to stay with her so she wouldn’t get excited and have breathing issues or crisis. I was almost raised by a grandpa who showed me how to play checkers and read novels, do crossword puzzles and memory games; helped by a dad who read books and drew stuff all the time, helped me climb trees and walls, showed me how to skate and ride bikes and watched Star Trek movies and football on Sundays with me.

Furthermore, as a kid, I chose to be the yellow ranger since at that time no girls on my school liked her because her uniform wasn’t pink and it made me feel bad for her. I felt bad that she had to be neglected for being a different color or not having a skirt attached to her uniform, so I chose her as a character then yellow became my color. And, as a sign of support, my parents never made wear pink clothes unless I wanted to. That was my childhood.

When I saw this, I remembered the day my dad tried to explain me the difference between boys and girls, and how I whined that I could climb trees as well as them and that I would not be set apart because of a color I was using. I believe that, if my dad had known that giving in to that argument would’ve defined me as the woman I am now, he probably would’ve fought a bit more...