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Once upon a time, I tell myself, there was a girl with hair full of ash and cheeks round as snowballs. She lived in a castle turret in Brooklyn where no one, no one at all, saw her for who she truly was.
She was a princess. But everyone believed she was only an unnamed character in an unpublished story. Faded ink marks on torn paper stuck in a scrapbook in some old woman’s attic.
This princess was sad, for even she had forgotten her own name. Her purpose, even.
This princess had lived a lifetime of chores, the overlooked and unappreciated kind. The cooking, cleaning, scrubbing. And princesses, in this day, were all expected to get jobs, pay bills, and put roofs over heads. Be mothers and wives and friends and caregivers and career women and volunteers and advocates and worshippers and coaches and mentors and, and, and….
They were expected to be perfect.
And that, believed the princess, is what made her Nameless.
But I don’t like this story, I say. I don’t like it one bit. I want a story where the princess is a princess. Where people see she’s a princess.
In fairy tales, princesses are always recognized as princesses. Even when they come drenched on stormy nights, get lost in forests, sleep on moss beds, or dream for eternity, lips poised for kisses.
And perhaps that’s the problem. Those princesses, the ones I grew up with, are passive and polite. Kind and courteous. Never a cross word sparks from their tongues. They are waiting…
Always waiting…
…for godmothers or princes or witches.
But that’s not this princess. Sometimes, this princess’ anger gets the better of her. Her sharp tongue strikes. She’s kind but cruel. Generous but greedy. She reminds herself those storybook princesses aren’t real. They are fantasy concoctions. Societal ideals.
They are not flesh and blood and emotion and experience. She can’t possibly live up to their infallible nature.
And yet, I say, we believe they are real.
Measuring sticks by which we draw our own worth or lack thereof.
But, the one thing this princess does have in common with the other princesses is waiting.
She’s been waiting, see, for permission. For trumpeters to arrive and announce her name so she may descend the stairs to the dance floor. For the glass shoe to fit her plump foot. For a fairy godmother to wave her wand and say, “Get out of those rags, child, here is your ball gown, your carriage, your crystal shoes, your ever after!”
That scene in Cinderella. Remember it? When the Fairy Godmother waves her wand and Cinderella spins and spins. Magic stars transform the poor cinder girl dressed in rags into a breathtaking princess with a couture gown fit for a queen.
That is the moment this princess has been waiting for. For years and years. A lifetime, really.
But now, now the princess is old. She should have become Queen. She should be a Dowager. Or a wise witch of the forest. But all the waiting for someone else to announce her, transform her, grant her a wish…
So, this princess, I say. This one has grown weary of the wait. This princess decides it doesn’t matter how others see her. She will look in the mirror, see herself, and write her own story.
Stop waiting. It’s time to make your own fairy tale.
Once upon a time…
Go ahead, write it…
CREDITS:
Written By: Mande Matthews
Music: The Price of Freedom
Music by Zakhar Valaha from Pixabay
Photos: Depositphotos.com
Photomanipulation & Video: Mande Matthews