When I was eight I decided that I was going to be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader wearing the signature scant blue and white ensemble, and I’d strut in those go-go boots doing high kicks and splits and maybe appear on an episode of Fantasy Island.
“But,” warned my mother, “you’d better start watching your diet now cause you have my thighs and those girls have to be skinny.”
When I was nine, after reading about King Tutankhamun, I planned to be an archeologist sifting through the hot golden sands of Egypt, discover a new pharaoh who’d prophesied my coming.
“Okay,” said my mother as she flipped through my National Geographic, “but I don’t understand why you’d want to be digging up a bunch of dead bodies.”
When I was ten, like the rest of the world that day, I watched a young girl named Diana marry a prince in England, and I decided that I too would marry a prince one day, only he would be Greek, and we’d make our home next door to some beautiful sun bleached pillared ruin.
“If you say so,” my mother said, “but I gotta tell you the truth, they don’t usually marry black girls from the projects.”
(Previously posted on 6 Sentences)