Ribbons - April 5, 2005

I often call my sister "She whose Pony is Inferior," because her My Little Pony was so clearly inferior to my sport-playing, ass-kicking Pegasus. Her common name in my stories is "BunnySis." But the name I will use for the purpose of this story, for fully capturing the extent of the injustice I was adolescently shown by the females in my family is "The Devil in Ribbons."

She was a pretty little girl. She was patient and sweet, obliging and malleable in that Jon Benet sort of way that makes younger sisters pretend to vomit by sticking a dirty first digit into their open mouths. Her outfits were always cleaned and pressed, and would remain that way until the day they were handed down to me. Then they would be covered in dirt stains and torn by thorns. My mother spoke of birthing her the way she spoke of spring breezes and dewy morns. It was as if she gently slid into the world, making no mess on exit. She washed her hands and face when told to, curtseyed for older people, occupied herself without breaking things or terrorizing animals, making inappropriate comments or setting fires. I couldn't compete.

With me, it was different. I was born weeks late on the worst day of the blizzard of '77 after four attempts at childbirth. My water never broke. It is said that during contractions my mother screamed something along the lines of "Get this fucking demon out of me!"

My parents were surprised (read: destroyed) by my sex. I had ruined their hopes for a perfectly balanced household. They had hoped I would be a boy, bought blue baby things, stocked up on sporting goods and picked out the name Aaron. They took off the A's, added an E, and loosed me into the world in all my ambiguous glory.

I may have been what people call a "handful." Certain childcare technicians, pediatricians and child psychologists called me a "problem child." It's true that babysitters came and went as one turns the pages of a book; that no local woman between the ages of 12 and 18 would take the phone if they knew Mr. or Mrs. Tyler was on the other end of it. I may have been difficult, but oh, the injustice. The injustice...

Before going to school, parties or meetings for my mother's various ladies' groups, the females in my family had a ritual. They would rise excitedly, eat breakfast, and prepare for this ritual. "Devil in Ribbons" would neatly dress herself in something frilly with spotless white lace trimmed in pink. Then she would go get my mother's hairbrush and metal tin of ribbons. My mother would kneel on the shag carpeting of our living room. She would sit sweetly beneath her, Indian-style, the bottoms of her socks pristine. I couldn't compete.

Then BunnyMommy would brush her hair, her long amber hair, her thick and beautiful hair. It was as if a Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo commercial took place in our living room every day.

"Does that hurt, sweetie?"
"Oh no, mommy."
"Are you sure, sweetie?"
"Oh yes, mommy."
"You're such a good little girl."
"Thank you, mommy."
"When we finish, you'll be so pretty."
"Oh yes, mommy"
"So very pretty."
"Prettier than my mommy?"
"You're so silly."
"Hee hee hee, I'm silly mommy"

More sickening, placating banter...

"Wee wee bleh bleh bleh, mommy?"
"Awww, wah wah bleh wah bleh, sweetie."

I would sit in the corner, intent on the brush. It was the bane of my existence, the instrument of ass torture. Punishment for my naughtiness was severe, and it came in the form of that brush.

"What kind of hairstyle should we do today, sweetie?" said BunnyMommy, lovingly twisting a rivulet of sparkling hair.
"Oh, whatever hairstyle you would like, mommy."
"You're such a good little girl, sweetie."
"Wah wah, bleh bleh wah, mommy."
"Neh neh wah bleh wah, sweetie."

BunnyMommy would brush and brush long after the hair was untangled, for the pure pleasure of it. She would pull it from the ends of hair, light flashing off its smooth surface mocking me with "remember yesterday, Bunny. Never forget how we danced yesterday when you used the f-word." Then the brush would run slowly down again. The Devil in Ribbons usually smirked. But that's what The Devil does.

When they were satisfied with the gleem, the styling portion of the ritual would begin. They would open the tin of ribbons, blue ones with sparkles, puffy ones, pink ones with animal beads, etc, and have a consultation, so to speak. They would consider the tones of the outfit and then make their selection. Then BunnyMommy would set about pinning the Devil's hair up.

"Oh, this looks so pretty, sweetie." Bunny sis would use a hand mirror to inspect what BunnyMommy had done.
"Oh, mommy, I just love it!"
"Yes, you look so pretty!"
"Oh, thank you mommy, thank you!"

She would get up, and then it would be my turn, the light vanishing from BunnyMommy's countenance.

To compensate for its transgendered appearance, BunnyMommy would call my haircut a "Dorothy Hamil," but it wa s just a plain old boy cut. Someone put a bowl over my head and trimmed around it. I had a cowlick in the back, and was surly in mood, making my appearance an uncanny copy of the "Ramona Quimby, Age 8" book cover. It didn't help matters that my hair was tangly. I would wake every morning to find that a family of rats had nested into the back of my head.

BunnyMommy would get the bottle of "No More Tangles," and then the torture would begin. She would spray down the nest and attack it with a comb, because using the brush on me was a cruelty even she wasn't capable of. The Devil sat and watched the tears stream down from the sides of my eyes.

And there were no ribbons for me. Not one. Not a blue one with sparkles, a puffy one, a pink one with animal beads. None, nada, zip, zero. This is because BunnyMommy once put a "peace offering" ribbon in my hair, which I promptly threw in a ditch. The damage is done, woman.

When my hair was fully untangled, we would put our shoes on and go to my mother's ladies' group meeting with a poorly-baked coffee cake burned to a crust on the outsides. The meeting was usually at some lady's home. On the ride there, I would be instructed a dozen times, upon pain of hairbrush, not to terrorize animals, make inappropriate comments or set fires. Yeah yeah yeah. The Devil in Ribbons would smirk and wrap a sparkling curl around her dirt-free index finger.

We would arrive at some strange lady's home and the introductions were as such: "Hello Rita."
"Hello, Mrs. Tyler. How are you?"
"Excellent. I brought coffee cake."
[With masked horror] "Oh, my... that looks... uh... delightful."
"Rita, this is my daughter [BunnySis]."

The devil would smile and curtsey, like a princess. For all Ms. Rita knew, she could have been royalty, all the motherfucking ribbons in her hair.

"Oh my. What a beautiful little girl you have there, Mrs. Tyler." She would bend and extend a hand to the Devil. "My name is Rita." The Devil would politely shake Rita's hand.

A cat would scramble across the living room floor and up the stairs. My mother would catch me and hold me against her legs.

"Uh, and this one here is my youngest, Erin."

And being that Erin/Aaron is a boy's name, and my RIBBONLESS hair was cut the way boy's hair is cut, Rita would glance down and try to figure out what sex I was. She would politely say:

"Well... uh, that's a cute little tyke."

Then I would go pull the fur out of Rita's cat. And people wonder why I'm sexually confused?

The injustice...

Posted by at 10:36 PM

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