Sit Still, Look Pretty

When I was a kid, my grandma would often call the house on summer afternoons. My siblings and I would see the number on the caller ID of our home phone and sigh. "Should we answer? Are you up for it?" we'd ask each other. Usually, at least one of us would volunteer to take the trip to get ice cream. You would think kids would be chomping at the bit to get ice cream with their grandma, but that wasn't the case for us. Those trips to grab soft serve weren't a carefree afternoon, but instead a performance. I won't speak for my siblings or cousins. Their experiences may have been very different, but my ice cream afternoons always started with an evaluation. Grandma would look me up and down and make a comment on something with my appearance. Sometimes the comments were small praises. "Your hair is so pretty." "I like your shirt." "You look so thin." Other times, more cryptic comments. "You wear those flip-flops a lot." "Are you wearing your hair up like that because you are playing a sport?" "Is that a new t-shirt? It's different." I smiled agreeably. After we ordered ice cream, Grandma had us sit at a table near the door. She watched for any person who walked through the door and immediately intercepted their trip to the counter to place an order. "This is my granddaughter, Roxanne. She's in ___ grade. I'm just so proud of her" was a usual interjection. We lived in a small town and most people already knew who I was, but they politely would assure my grandma that I was a fine young girl and I would smile politely back and thank them. 

I never understood why those afternoons bothered me so much. I got free ice cream. I didn't have to do any chores. But twice this week, a song called "Sit Still, Look Pretty" by Daya popped up on my randomized playlist and, for whatever reason, both times I thought back to those ice cream days and even the memory made me feel drained. I think what bothers me was the lack of worth outside of being pretty and obedient. I wasn't a "fine young girl" because I was intelligent or well-spoken or kind or funny. My grandma (or the many people that walked into that dining establishment) didn't know if I was imaginative or hard-working or brave. They never asked me anything about myself. I was only "good" because I didn't speak at all. I was valued for my appearance only. 

This feeling wasn't isolated to interactions with my grandmother. I was a "great student" at every parent teacher conference, not because of my innovation or leadership, but because I never spoke up and complained or made problems at school. Teachers liked me, not because of my actions, but instead the lack of them. My parents would get compliments from doctors or waitresses about how "well-behaved" I was. I learned early on that silence and complacency were praised and I would feel overwhelmingly guilty every time I would cry or make a mess. I didn't want to be a burden to anyone in any way. I was more worthy of love if I didn't cause anyone any inconvenience at all, right?

Unfortunately, I have taken those standards for myself into my adult life. At work, I can't remember a single time that I met with a manager or boss that I spoken up and said anything except to answer a question. I always smile and nod and tell him/her that everything is great, even when it's not. I don't want to create problems. I want to be a "good" employee. In almost every job I've had, I've been assigned more tasks than I can juggle, because each time I'm asked if I can do something, I smile and say, "Of course." 

Even with friends and family, who I know love me for much more than my appearance, I often try to make myself still or invisible. I'll have the urge to call a friend and tell them about an experience, but then convince myself they don't want to hear from me. I'll vent about something to someone and then immediately feel terrible for not shutting up and just keeping my feelings to myself. I regularly tell myself that it's okay to take up space and that my feelings are important too, but I'm not very good at listening to my own voice. I hope I can get better. My voice matters. Yours does too. We don't have to contort ourselves to fit what others prefer to see. We can be loud. We can move. And I think we'll still be pretty.