In case it’s not obvious to anyone, I’m a feminist. I’m pretty sure I’ve been a feminist my whole life. I have a strong sense of justice and keeping things fair. Just ask any one of my four siblings. As I got older, the commitment to justice and equality came into line with what I studied and spent my time on.
And somewhere in the tangle of being a feminist, I began to feel uncomfortable about the colour pink. Pink became the symbol of female containment and conformity in my mind. Being a parent upped the ante for me. Everywhere I looked, children’s goods were divided into two sections: the pink section and the blue/black/grey/maybe-red-if-you’re-lucky section. (Take a walk through Toys R Us and see what I mean.) And that felt unfair and misogynist and harmful. So I did what I could to push back against that.
The girl loves pink right now. It makes her happy. Somewhere inside me it makes me squirm and feel uncomfortable. Like I feel guilty that she has pink clothes to choose from in the first place. But if I can push aside my own anxieties, I see how secure that Kate-girl is, how self-possessed, how comfortable she is living inside the box and outside the box. Choosing her clothes gives her a modicum of control in a world that is largely not hers to control. For now, she prefers to attire herself, head-to-toe in pink. Even when her day’s activities involve digging for worms, building forts, playing with her dolls (yes, yes, she even has dolls!), or cleaning toilets.
So for now, PINK happens. And this feminist sister is okay about that.