"Monday's Child is Fair of Face" I was born into a rare world. They say I have noble blood in my veins, but I am not treated like that. When I came into the world, it was a cold, dreary morning, they say, and I wailed quietly, torn from my mother's womb, brought here into this life of esteem, responsibility, and luxury. It did not take me long to realize what madness this was, for I was not privileged, not esteemed, not more worthy than anyone else. I was among the gallery of God's mistakes, an ironic twist in the life of father and mother, who expected so much but got so little. That I was born a girl was the first mistake. They had wanted a male heir, but I came out clearly female, to their disappointment. But they could overlook this, because I was their only child, and I was going to be their only child—perhaps my curse as well as theirs. If I had been given a brother, perhaps my life would've been happier! I suppose I could also throw in a few What If suggestions, but no amount of fantasizing can change the past. All I can do is accept the fact that I am not what they wanted me to be, and try to live. I was certainly raised properly, brought up by a mother and a father strict about rules, discipline, manners and grace. Yet they taught me not out of love but out of obligation, for I was but their only child, and a spectral one at that. Would I be ignored, cast off into the cold (obsolete me), if another had been born? Oh, what if indeed, but I never got the chance to find out. I lived my life under their thumb, and even though I conflicted with my parents, I did emerge as they generally wished. I was polite, elegant, helpful and perceptive, as they had dreamed. I could follow them and adhere to any of society's rules on a whim, bowing and smiling daintily like a real lady. I would work hard to please them—anything for a bit of affection, some love—but I could tell that even my greatest efforts disappointed them. I could see it in their eyes, and the eyes of everyone who looked at me, no matter how polite or casual. I was not "normal" like them; I didn't carry the normal physical traits they did. But so what? That didn't mean I was any different! I quickly decided that if I was perceived as different, I may as well act upon it. I withdrew from those highbrow scenes and became a kind of recluse in my own home. My language, eloquent and fluid though it was, became stuffed inside my mouth, and I chose silence oftentimes as a means of furthering my invisibility. I already looked like a ghost, so why not? Going out into those important social events had made me awkward anyway, unsociable and unemotional, because they stared and they shook their heads, all of them saying how great a shame I was to my family, my kind. I once heard that the fairest lady of all had skin white as snow, just like I did, but her hair was dark like ebony, her lips red, her radiance angelic. I was no Snow White, no Bianca waiting for the kiss of life, just a pale version of my possible self, what I "could have" been—I was my own ghost. I became stubborn when my parents requested my presence. I spent my money on animals, on two dear pets, who I kept and cared for. They loved me as only pets can, completely and absolutely, regardless of who I was and what I looked like. I knew at once what I wanted to become after graduation: a veterinarian, one who treats beautiful companions like these. I told my parents; they didn't exactly think it was a noble's profession. But by then their opinion mattered little. Was it really during my adolescence when I became attracted to women? Perhaps. My first real love was a girl, two years older and perfect in my terrible eyes. She was young, sprightly, expressive and wholesome; she loved me deeper than I could imagine anyone loving me, and just when I had gotten used to her, she dropped out of my life, and I was cursed with loneliness for six years. I wept, but my eyes couldn't express this sadness; they started out red and they stayed red, regardless of the tears. Red. Red, red, red. It was my favorite color. She had worn a red shirt the first day I met her. I grew older, and I grew wiser and more sophisticated, but I was not arrogant or superior. I could never feel that no matter what, because my freakishness overwhelmed my social status. Noble or not, I was ugly, and that sent me hurling down to the muddy ground to live amongst the rocks. Yet even I had my pride, small as it was, and held my chin high and walked with ladylike precision everywhere I went, not wanting to bend under the weight. I may have been an ugly rooster amongst hens, but I was a rooster nonetheless. I grew tired of preparatory schools when I was about fifteen or sixteen. I didn't want to be around any more rich snobs, not if I could help it. They were dull and uninspiring anyway, and they drained me of my interest in people. They simply had no character—they had been given everything in life! Their souls were bleak, like a windshield unable to clean itself after a downpour of mud and hail. The most beautiful souls, I knew, were ones that were "common", the people that had to work for their luxuries, those with real stories, real friends, and real dreams. I knew I couldn't be like them—I could never be like anyone—but I would've rather been with them than my "peers". It took a lot of begging, but I finally got my strict parents to enroll me in a more public school. I found out that this was still an all-girls school, as my previous ones had been, but this place had all kinds of characters, some as freakish and neglected as I was (or even more so). I was happy to attend and at first, dove in with enthusiasm. I told nobody of my lineage, not wanting to come across as yet another rich snob to avoid or leech off of, and kept mostly to myself and my grades, earning some recognition but little popularity. But that was all right; I had stepped far enough for the time. I remember my second and third loves well, because they were more recent and more, shall I say, real. They saw me as an actual person, neither rich nor ugly, and loved me in spite of my shortcomings. I became a diamond dredged from the mud because of their supportive hands! They both left me, of course, for different reasons. Looking back, I think I can understand why. These two women, my teacher and my friend, were both selfless in their own way, wanting nothing but happiness for me. I couldn't contain the bittersweet joy I felt when I was with them, nor the unusual sorrow I felt after parting with each. One relationship led to the other, and this one, though lasting longer, led to my current one—full circle. Today, Monday, the fourteenth of February, is St. Valentine's Day, an event supposed to invoke love and romance. I sent a small gift and a card to the three women who had loved me the most in my life—teacher, friend, and now my newest lover—and visited them all, smiling and thanking them for what they've done. My teacher was unfortunately gloomy, and told me plainly about how her own lover had crushed her, leaving her to writhe. I sympathized with her and told her—her, of all people!—that I was there for her, to support and love her, as both student and friend. For this she thanked me, embracing me, telling me I was one of the few truly good ones. Well…maybe. I could not bear to be with my friend, my last former lover, very long that day. I still felt wounded, even though she encouraged me and told me all was well, sending me on my way back to my new lover—first and last, all the same. I met up with this woman, seeing her new face, remembering how dearly it had been etched into my heart, and I knew happiness, even though many more conflicts were abuzz. I was invited to stay at her small apartment for as long as I wished, and took her up on her offer. I should've enjoyed the wonderful love we shared, but my mind wandered, back to the one I had hurt, one who had loved me. Yet this one loved me as well, and so I accepted it and loved her back. O you of fair face, what story shall you tell in the future? Will you say how your love developed with this new woman, how you attended college together, got your degree, and married her happily, your parents standing aghast in the sanctuary? Oh, would they be shocked to find their daughter marrying a girl, erasing their name for good! Or would I wed this angel, the one I had loved first? Would I go down a new path after all? Or would I revisit an old one? Love is complicated, especially for one so new. I have barely begun to grasp its politics, and yet I find myself in her arms, naked and white and painfully beautiful, beautiful and fair beyond compare. I finally had the courage to look into a mirror later that day. Naked, alone, unashamed and unflinching, I spoke to it. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, Am I the fairest of them all? I hated mirrors because they told me the truth. I hated this one even more because it portrayed me as beautiful.
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