Box Labeled “Lady-Like”
I distinctly remember the night I lost all faith in the universe. I distinctly remember the day I gained it all back. My name is Anne LeBlanc and I here is my story.
I was born on a scorching afternoon in nineteen-fifty. My mother always described it as the most enlightening day of her life, my father only ever mentioned the blistering heat of mid-July. Growing up as a woman in the nineteen-hundreds had its flaws. I was always different. I didn’t want to wear dresses and have tea parties, I didn’t want to stay home and have my hours revolve around chores. My dream was to be different. I wanted to go to school and learn. I wanted to sit in a classroom and absorb all the material being taught by my teacher. I wanted to take a long drive with a blanket of stars surrounding me and get a tattoo on my arm. I wanted to feel the depth that freedom had to offer. My mind felt the desire to become something greater than myself, but that didn’t happen.
My mother ran ill when I was a fourteen year old girl. Cancer. All the years of her life were condensed into two short months. I was never able to stir up one short word, goodbye. It took a toll on my life and I was never the same after that.
My favourite memory of my mother was her urging me to behave as a lady should. “Anne straighten out your back, do not bend over like that, you look ridiculous.” or “Young lady, we have been through this at least a hundred times, you better sit with your legs crossed over, or do not sit at all.” This was our routine, my mother correcting my every movement and posture and me, well I did not know better than to rebel. I chose to ignore or when I wanted to have a bit of fun, I’d glance over at her, smile the widest smile, and laugh. My father always played along with me, “let her be a child for God’s sake.” Defeated, my mother would roll her eyes and walk away whispering to herself, “why do I even bother with this girl?” Laughter filled the room as my father grabbed onto my hands and we danced in the living room of our home.
This was my life, it was all I ever knew. I was what my mother had created of me and when she rose to the skies, I was lost. My father never spoke a word to anyone, let alone me. He remained in his study days after her death and I was left alone.
This was the night I lost all faith in the universe, but mostly in myself. I distinctly remember that night as I held a tight grip on my mother’s hand. She leaned and whispered two short words, “be fearless.” If only I had listened to her soft voice once.
The hallways echoed of her voice but she was not there. Each time I lumped into a seat, her voice would ring into my ears, correcting me. I had changed. With her gone, I obeyed for the first time. I had become the lady my mother always wanted of me. Dreams of going to school and getting an education no longer spurred inside my head and for the next couple of years, the memories associated with my mother were all repressed. The person who I once was, deteriorated into the abyss until I no longer had any desire but that of looking after the house and taking care of my father.
I knew though that a small ember continued to burn inside my chest. It never fully left. As the years dragged onto one another, I had begun to realize that there was no point in any of this. I was not my mother and there was nothing wrong with that. My mind felt the need to force myself into a box labeled “lady-like” and it was not for me.
By the age of twenty-four, I set out on my own path. I was going to find the girl who had fluttered into the abyss and I was going to return her to her rightful owner. Society and its norms were never meant for me and I had begun to realize that it was alright.
It was a heated afternoon in nineteen-seventy-five when I decided to receive my first tattoo. I sat in the stool of a small run-down store and my mother’s voice echoed in my head, “be fearless.” I never entirely understood what she meant until that day. She was the reason I felt brave. The tattoo was a photo of my mother. After that day I chose to express myself through the art of tattooing. I was a canvas that had been painted over a few times but all those times were through others’ lenses; my mother, society, until that day. I learnt to be a fierce woman and to alter the expectations that were forced upon me and billions of other girls and women.
This was the day I gained my faith back in, not only society, but myself. I was braver than I had convinced myself.
After that, I took steps into my path and discovering my identity. I bought my first ever car with the money I had saved up in the summer of nineteen-seventy-one. It was a beige Volkswagen beetle that I cherish to this day.
Ever since that day of getting my first ever tattoo, I got many more of all the milestones in my life. They make me who I am and who I am is enough for me, even if it is not enough for society.