1975

Often I am reminded of the day that I realized I was different. I was 4 years old. It was Christmas Eve 1975. Standing in my aunt’s kitchen, lost in the hustle and bustle of preparing dinner for the many mouths in our family, I listened as the women cooed over my older cousin. “She’s so pretty,” one aunt said over and over. Then my cousin bounced past with her blondish hair pulled back in a bright red ribbon and I followed her into the next room. I studied her.

Then I moved to the basement where all of the older cousins were playing pool. Blonde-haired and brown-haired boys laughed and wrestled while the blonde-haired girls sat at the piano. I loved them all so much, even at 4, but I felt so different from them. My black hair and big brown eyes were a vast departure from the rest of the family.

I remember, later that night, asking my mom why I was so different. I don’t remember her answer. Deep down, I think I really wanted to know if I was pretty too.

People tell me now that I am pretty. Men, women… lots of people tell me that I am pretty. People that I don’t even know have written me poems and beautiful notes after having merely seen pictures of me online or after having seen me sing on television. In my adventures in online dating, I have received hundreds of responses and requests to meet. Hundreds. It’s not an exaggeration. And I say that not to brag but to make this point:

When I was 4, I equated the compliment “she’s so pretty” with acceptance. It meant that people were paying attention. And as a child I just wanted people to pay attention and to recognize me and, most of all, to understand me even though I was different from the other kids. The pretty part was the easy part. The rest is still a struggle.

People who don’t know me come the closest to “getting” me. That’s because on paper, I seem worth “getting.” What guy doesn’t want to talk to a girl who cooks and loves football? What man doesn’t want to spend time with someone who is content with having a beer and watching an old John Wayne flick or someone who is ok with just sitting… in silence? People read my profiles or check out my facebook page and they get me a little and they want to know me.

But there must be something that comes in really knowing me that makes me seem less important or less fascinating to others. Or perhaps it is the shallowness of this town that looks past the big brown eyes in the picture or my list of likes and dislikes and maybe even my talent and just sees a big girl. And in this town... that's not what people are looking for.

And it takes me back… to 1975… all over again.