I’m a delicate flower, damn it!
I know, it’s crazy that I even have to tell you that. Okay, If I’m being honest, it’s not crazy at all. After all, who am I trying to convince? You or myself? The answer to that is, both. For as long as I can remember I’ve been trying to navigate life in the duality of my personality. There are actually two sides of me, dominant versus dependent.
I must admit, the scales have rarely ever been balanced. The dominant traits in me have always outweighed any dependent tendencies. But damn it! I’m a delicate flower.
It’s not necessarily something I really had control over or was even aware of, until recently. A need to be treated delicately as you would a newborn kitten. Not all hard and rough like the toughest cut of beef you have to pound until tender.
I feel like Sophia in The Color Purple, “All my life I had to fight!” I know I climbed trees, played bounty hunter in the woods and swung on vines to cross creeks. I know I wrestled, played football, and fought the boys in the neighborhood. I remember playing with snakes, frogs and picking worms to go fishing with dad. I’m not afraid of bugs or animals. So what that I rather work outside in the yard, climb atop roofs to clear gutters, or go shopping in hardware/tool stores than do domesticated chores.
I am still a delicate flower!
There is a piece of me that wants to be dependent. I acknowledge that “Fuck it. I will do it my damn self!” is old, overrated, and comes from a place of pain and disappointment. To the men in my life, I apologize that I made you feel you aren’t needed since I can and have done so much for myself. Blame my daddy.
But not really. It was how my young mind interpreted his instructions as he was teaching me all that he knew that boys wouldn’t take advantage of me. I took it and ran with it! He forgot to tell me that men need to feel needed and useful.
I do want to say it’s not all on me when it comes to my relationships. Since I’m not short and dainty, men look at me as something to be conquered or worse, someone to compete with. When they don’t understand that I’m one of their biggest fans. Oh, how deep my love is for the black man.
I even had a boss who hated when I wore heels because I could look him eye-to-eye. That’s something that couldn’t be helped. There are no height restrictions on who can and cannot wear heels, and there shouldn’t be. I wish that some males egos weren’t so fragile and they remember that I too still deserved to be handled with care. Even if I look like the oxygen I breathed was much thinner air. (That’s an altitude reference because I’m like 6’3” in heels and some folks want to act like it’s the attack of the 50 foot woman or something when they see me coming).
And my poor mom.
She was in the background. All girly and sensitive, who would cry so easily at sad scenes on TV and in movies. Someone to be mocked for those traits because I felt more like one of the guys running around with my brothers and dad. Mom tried to soften me up. Changed my room out to all pink, and encouraged me to get into cheer leading. She was even my cheer leading coach. All the while, somehow maintaining her own femininity in a home full of dominant energy. Bless her heart. Somehow though, through my stages of life the alpha side of me was always greater.
So even when I would soften it up, appearance wise by applying a little bit of make-up, adding jewelry, or attempting to be the damsel in distress. It never felt natural. And now that I want to be more girly and adorn myself or put a little switch in my hips, I’m not comfortable in my own skin. Most days I just feel like a utility (a tool) and unisex.
I realize though that if I want to be treated as such (the delicate flower that I am), that I’ve got to look and act as such. The dependent part of me, who has pretty much been shelved, is screaming to get out. The dependent side of me was side-lined while the dominatrix was the bad cop in parenting, the leader at work, the handler of problems, the post for others to lean on, the calm in the face of storms, and the steadfast dependable one in the face of crisis and uncertainty.
The tom-boy in me has served me well and I don’t think I’ll ever lay that aspect of me to rest. I also recognize where that hurt me. But it’s time to get in touch with my feminine side. In the remainder of my life, I am going to allow myself to be softer, daintier, and dependent. Please don’t mind me if it gets a little awkward. I am bound to have Bambi legs in this aspect of my personality or have a relapse.
But that will just go to show that I AM A DELICATE FLOWER, and I thank you to treat me as such.