Today’s flash fiction prompt: Write about a sibling dispute. I dug deep for this one, and let my daughter read it. She cried, which was not the reaction I was expecting. Gave me lots to think about.
Vision
It’s not fair.
That’s the complaint I hear as my two daughters argue, once again, over their inequities. Fighting over dolls, shoes, dresses, hair ties, toothbrushes.
My oldest gets to wear her hair straight, but my youngest has to wear puffs. It’s not fair.
The youngest gets swim goggles in pink, but the oldest has to wear black only. It’s not fair.
Both of them have to stay home from swim class because one of them is sick. It’s not fair.
I suppose, from their perspective, it isn’t. They know nothing of the struggles of their foremothers, have no appreciation for the struggles we still face in our efforts to make the big, wide world accessible to them.
My oldest gets to wear her hair straight, because she knows how to take care of it during the school day. My youngest hasn’t learned to take care with her hair, doesn’t understand that humidity and rain undo hours of work, transforming smooth, straight hair into thick, tight, often unruly coils. I spent most of my childhood in puffs for that very reason. My mother couldn’t indulge in daily hairstyles. She had to work. Her precious time was parsed between making ends meet and meeting the needs of me and my siblings. Straightening hair was a task reserved for very special occasions. Picture day, mainly.
My youngest can wear pink goggles, because she’s got perfect vision, and goggles for those who can see come in every shade and style you can conjure. My oldest requires a prescription, and a strong one at that. If you can find them, and afford them, they still come in just one shade: black. Never mind that goggles in any form were a luxury in my youth.
These days, anyone with children knows that they can’t be left home alone until they’re older, and especially not when they’re sick. But my girls don’t understand that. Don’t know how many days I spent unsupervised and alone. And afraid.
They don’t always see my efforts to protect them, to open up the world for them, as what they are. They fight over who gets the doll with oaky skin and curly hair not knowing that, once upon a time, there were no shades to choose from. They are children.
But one day, my girls will stand before me, not as children, but as women. Individuals with bright minds and big hearts that will break, and break, and break. So, though I know they need protection, I also know they need my stories. And my mother’s stories. And her mother’s stories. Not to discourage them, but to prepare them for their own struggles.
Because even a child knows that life isn’t fair.
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