Brandi M. Gard
Pretty (adjective)
1.) pleasing by delicacy or grace
2.) having conventionally accepted elements of beauty
3.) appearing or sounding pleasant or nice but lacking strength, force, manliness, purpose, or intensity
Pretty is what men call you at work. They’re sometimes drunk or sometimes long-haul truckers who haven’t had any human interaction in a few days, and you’re just there. Pretty is enough to make some men linger by your register. They flirt and are vulgar. They beg you to come back to their trucks and mistake your flush of anger for giddy pleasure and say, “I love your pretty blush.” Pretty is when these men shuffle outside after asking you what time you get off. And wait around until you do. When you hide inside the bathroom and call your father to come get you, you feel childish and terrified and helpless. You do not feel pretty.
Pretty is on the scornful tongues of women in the small town you grew up in. It’s a mock and sometimes a pity when they talk about you. “Pretty girls should expect nothing less,” or “She won’t be so pretty anymore when no man will have her. Not after that.” Pretty is the same words that echoed around the post office and during church potlucks after your mother’s rape. Pretty is a cup size, no matter if it’s on the body of an eleven-year-old. Pretty is the reason. Pretty is the blame.
Pretty is sometimes a threat. “Boys won’t think you’re pretty if you wear that.” If you’re smarter than them. If you eat that last cupcake. If you swear like that. Pretty is when you wash your hair and it falls in shiny and wild tangles around your shoulders. It’s something your mother says will get you a boyfriend. You don’t want a boyfriend; you don’t even want men to touch you. Pretty is a privilege you’re not sure you want.
Pretty is when you met your grandmother in the nursing home after not seeing her for over seven years. It’s the catch in her voice when your mother introduces you again. It’s the tears in her eyes and the senile lilt in her voice when she says, “You’re so pretty. Can I hug you?” You remember when she didn’t think you were so pretty; she thought you were just a whore.
Pretty is when she dies that winter and your makeup never smears because you can’t cry for a woman who never loved you. Pretty is when people you haven’t seen since you were small approach you in the mourning line. “You grew up so pretty,” “You look just like she did at this age, pretty as a picture.” That morning, you struggled with your skirt and your eyeliner and tried to not be pretty, as the man that raped you because you were a pretty child stood at the head of the mourning line.
Pretty is a title that you have somehow gained; however, you can never see it in the mirror. Pretty is a vase of silken white lilies. Pretty is a handful of cat’s eye marbles. Pretty is a decoration, a fleeting glimpse of something just nice enough to mention but not nice enough to think about again. Pretty is small and dainty. A china cup on a china saucer with a hint of pink lipstick around the rim. Pretty describes you in portrait. Pretty is never opening your mouth. Pretty is fragile and delicate and soft. Pretty comes off every night with a damp washcloth and an acne cleanser. Pretty is nothing like you. And people are disappointed when they find out.
*