Pretty What?

By Lavanya Jalan

When she's born,they might stand around her cribwith sugar-coated smilesand say,"We hope she grows up to be pretty."

But pretty what?

Pretty kind?

Pretty strong?

Pretty bold?

Pretty wise?

No

they’ll just mean her face.

Her skin.

The way the world might pause to admire,

not knowing that admiration

is not the same as worth.

But I don’t wish that for my daughter.

I wish her something louder,

something wilder,

something that doesn’t fade with years

something with teeth,

something with fire,

something with purpose.

I hope she grows up

to ask why,

to say no,

and she defends those who can't defend themselves.

I hope when they call her

"too much,"

"too loud,"

"too stubborn,"

she doesn’t shrink

she stands taller.

Because she knows she’s standing for something that matters.

Let her be pretty resilient,

pretty unshakable,

pretty sure of her voice

even when it trembles.

Let her be the one who questions the rules,

who writes her own lines,

who isn't afraid to walk alone

if the path she believes in

isn't crowded yet.

I hope she grows up

pretty brave,

pretty relentless,

pretty damn sure of herself.

And I hope she knows

that I’ll be by her side.

Even when the world judges her,

tries to dim her light.

Even when she shakes mountains,

and they call her names

because they can't move her.

Even when the world says hush

and she roars back "No."

She will never be alone.

Because I won’t raise her to chase pretty.

I’ll raise her to have a pretty soul.

I’ll raise her to be power,

to be heart,

to be voice.

And that,

that is the only kind of pretty

I will ever wish for her.

By Lavanya Jalan