Were You Ever Asked to be Someone Else?
Untitled, But not in a Pretentious Way // a SoulPancake Exclusive by Elizabeth Alinikoff
Like you, I did not blend in. Not because I was an angry teen or had too many boyfriends. I was a confusingly well-behaved child, occasionally odd, but mostly good natured. I never snuck out of the house, or stole the car, or did drugs. I didn’t even drink with my cool friends over at their cool house - with their super cool parents. I will admit to french kissing a couple boys in high school, but considering all my other good deeds, these two pretty much cancel each other out. I cleaned, cooked, and helped my brother with his homework. I had no problem conversing with adults over adult matters, and did not hold back when it came time to educate neighborhood children as to the mechanics of how babies are born. No, it’s not via the bellybutton. Turns out, it’s not an actual button.
Swell daughter part aside, I stood out at school for a plethora of other reasons. And by ‘other’ I’m not referring to my talkative nature, love of musical theater, or experience being the only brownish person in a class of 30. I grew up in the buckle of the Bible belt being a Baha’i who celebrated Chanukah in lieu of Christmas. While other student’s class-work rendered simple drawings of supper as chicken nuggets with a side of corn, I had to explain why my illustrations of steamed veggies, brown rice and molasses soymilk tea were not meant to be esoteric. It just took a while to draw all the ingredients. Still to this day, there is something so perfectly dreamy about a Lunchable CapriSun combination.
For a brown non-Christian female, wearing a lot of mustache and even more home-bound responsibility, making friends in public school was an overwhelming concern. Your only wish being people don’t laugh in your face or tell you you smell. Sadly when both these wishes are not granted, you pray humor or personality will see you through. I am thankful the universe gave me both and I promise to pay it forward.
As life in high school progressed, one specific female teacher took it upon herself to help me out. Not ever having her as an instructor, I thought it strange she paid so much attention to me in the hallway, in between classes, laughing with my friends. Sweetly she’d look in my direction, telling me to tone it down. “Elizabeth act like a lady!” was her favorite piece of advice. It rolled off her tongue as if I should have thanked her for the favor. Her sweetness disguised the slightly off-putting remark. Strangely, I never saw her reprimand heavy petting couples, boys dipping by the water fountain, or freshman inappropriately dressed for winter months.
Looking back now, her problem was pretty blatant. Funny girls made her uncomfortable.
Watching her interactions with others, I found in most cases stupid funny was OK. Cute funny was of course, adorable, but louder, intelligent, or witty humor was not attractive for young women. I was a turn off. I was not feminine and needed help. Maybe I would have had more luck trying out as our school mascot, The Commando: a fatigue wearing white male solider holding a giant Uzi. I would have had a 30-foot mural of myself painted on the gym wall. It definitely wouldn’t have been ladylike, but somehow more acceptable.
