I grew up knowing what I was. It was an inevitability--when someone gasps and says that they hope you grow up to be smart, when they tell you, faintly, that they think that you are very clever -- when you spend your entire childhood damned with faint praise, how can you not know?
My brother was gorgeous. I remember strangers, telling our parents:
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I love this sentiment. I am enamored with the repeated lesson. It is so difficult to see how ridiculous our assumptions about the world are without an outsider's gaze. I love the tender moment you created for this between two artists. I am so pleased our protagonist got her validation at the end.
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Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked “female”.
What a fantastic quote. It paints that underlying expectation with a brush of absurdity that shows it for what it really is.
I can understand completely why it inspired this story, which is such an unusual use of the prompt. I hope that someday, your mother will finally reach the maturity to come to the realization that Miranda's parents did, though I won't hold my breath.
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I've more or less given up on my mother and I understanding one another. "Eso si que es," or "it is what it is", as one of my good friends would say. I'm never going to have the relationship with her that I want, and she's never going to be anything other than ashamed of me, so -- eh. All I can hope to do is learn by her example. I'm hopeful that if I have kids, I can simply do the opposite of everything she did, and be a good parent.
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The problem was never you, and it's so nice to be in a place where you really see and believe that. :)
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