La Vie en Rose

I look down at my hands writing these words. My fingernails are painted with a pink glitter polish; there are pink Hello Kitty charms and pink flowers glued on. I’m wearing my hot pink Diane von Fursternberg long sleeve shirt, my toes kept warm by a pair of giant pink kitty slippers. And it feels right.

I cannot remember my first encounter with the color pink, but I like to imagine. I must have still been in my mother’s womb, enclosed by her pinkness on the inside. Walls hugging me tighter than she has in years.

My mother always crudely said, “Ay, pero bien que hasta me lambiste cuando saliste de mi vientre,” when I thought I was too old for her affection and would push her embraces away. She joked. But I think she was right all this time. It was my first taste of pink on my way out into the world.

I was the first born child to my parents and a girl. When I was born the hospital staff called me La Señorita because I was such a big baby! I was showered in pink everything, as if to affirm that I was in fact a girl. No one was to be confused, no one would call my mother’s daughter a boy.

Wikipedia, the most reliable source, claims that, “in the 1920s, some groups had described pink as a masculine color, an equivalent to red, which was considered for men but lighter for boys.

But stores nonetheless found that people were increasingly choosing to buy pink for girls, and blue for boys, until this became an accepted norm in the 1940s.” By the time I was born, it was a girl’s color, and I loved it. I loved it, I loved it.

When I flip through my family album (I mean the stacks of saranwrapped photos because the album fell apart from frequent flipping through memories) I see birthday parties full of pink decor. The cake is Barbie themed. I’m wearing pink lipgloss, I’m only 6, but I am so jubilant.

There’s pink confetti in the air, falling from the piñata that slides from the extension cord (because papi couldn’t find a rope).

But in middle school, to love pink was to lean into femininity, and that meant to act and look pretty so boys will like you. But, I had no desire to be deemed worthy by any boy “ que ni siquiera se sabe limpiar la cola,” like my mom always reminded me.

I donated my pink clothes. No more skirts, no more bows, no more lip gloss, no more pink.

Really, I swear, I have no interest in boys! I wanted to let them know too. All the bobos would gravitate to pink, and miniskirts, like moths to a flame. Gross.

For a brief moment, it was all about purple. I could hardly stand blue, or the assumptions it came along with. Tomboy. Marimacho. Strange. Purple was a safe middle ground. My middle school classmates asked me why. I just don’t like pink, I’d insist. They’d laugh and snicker behind my back. Who knew a color could be so telling? Relatives continued to assume pink was my favorite color as I grew into puberty. I was getting tired of it, I needed something different. At the time I didn’t realize I was rebelling against the forces of gender roles. Just because I was a girl, didn’t mean I even liked the color. I renounced the color pink. I refused to wear it on my person. Get it away from me. So, I asked my dad to paint my room purple.

It stayed purple for years. My sister and roommate, Kayla, didn’t seem to mind, though she loved pink. But as soon as I left for college, and came home for break… she painted my entire room pink. I was furious.

Pink was everywhere. It cornered me in our bathroom. Kayla’s overflowing pink bin of pink bath bombs from Lush. Her comforter on her bed was pink, I scoffed. She wore pink barrettes to school. Are you kidding me? I had to live here an entire month. This was supposed to be my vacation.

One day, it began to tease me; the pink walls shimmered under our white lightbulb. Later, at the nail salon I picked a pale pink color. It looked more like nude in the salon, I prepared to defend myself if discovered. On the way home I passed the florist and saw the most beautiful magenta orchid smile at me through the window. The sun shined through the glass and she glowed back. The green succulents nor white flowers stood a chance beside her I went home and opened my door. Kayla installed pink LED lights. As I looked over, her face showed worry.

“Is that too much? You can change the color if you want.”

“No, that’s okay.” It was okay. Pink was okay and palatable. I spent so much time running away from it. I had forgotten that to like pink was to lean into femininity. I had forgotten how to appreciate the things that reminded me of my womanhood. I wanted to be dainty, desired, taken care of, seen like that beautiful delicate orchid. That summer, my mom made so much agua de Jamaica. Our neighbors had beautiful hibiscus flowers, bigger than my face in their yard. Que rica sabes. Tinting my already pink tongue a darker hue, reminding me we are one. When I give thanks to Mami

I feel my pink tongue joyfully dancing in my mouth, savoring the pink stain in private. Looking is not enough. I’ve put it in my hair too. I had to bleach it first to rid and cleanse my hair of the darker color.

When it was done, I hurriedly covered the copper colored hair with hot pink dye that lived on my palms for days after. I pretended I was King Midas, and objects succumbed to pink at my touch.

Now, I absolutely love walking past the florist. I see all the different pink flowers stretching their necks towards the sun. I pretend they are actually reaching for me to take them home to adorn my space. Reminding me I don’t need a man, or woman, to buy them for myself.

Every morning I smiled, waking up in my pink oasis, giving thanks to la vie en rose that I

-Betsy Morales