Five, Maybe Six

I recall a very crucial moment as a child.

I grew up going to Disney several times a year. A blessing, not many people could afford. Strangely enough only a few moments stand out; crazy to think you don’t get to choose the memories that stick. 

This time it was near my birthday, I’m an Aries spring baby so I usually had the perks of spring break birthdays. My mother took me and my sister. She was a single mother of two at the time who made this trip possible a few times a year. 

We went to the huge store in, what once was, Downtown Disney. In that store there was a wall of all the princess merchandise. Dresses, shoes, crowns, etc. A little girl’s best dream and a parent’s bank account’s worst nightmare.

 

Every princess accounted for: Belle, Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora, Jasmine, and even the fish. They were all there on little cardboard hangers with the cartoon princess plastered to it. It was magical. Blues, yellows, pinks, and GLITTER. And my mother was here allowing me to choose just one for my birthday present, although looking back going to Disney period was more than enough.

 

At the age of about 5 or 6, I am much like I am now. Attracted to all things that glitter and scream “stereotypical femininity”. I was, and still am, a little indecisive yet impulsive. I wanted to choose correctly. I wanted to make the right decision. I wanted to be proud of such decision.

So as my sister was off avoiding the princess wall, I was hypnotized by it. I scanned and touched the dresses and their matching plastic shoe/ crown combos. Who should I pick? I originally wanted Belle. She liked books, I liked books. Mom loved yellow. But Cinderella had a castle in the park and that was cool. The fish had pretty purple and teal sequins. I liked the movie Snow White. Jasmine’s outfit was risky, the belly showed a bit. Aurora was pink, I loved pink, although I never recalled her movie.

I just couldn’t choose and my mother was providing ZERO help to my decision. It was in fact my birthday choice.

I wandered around a bit and confidently selected Belle’s golden, yellow ball gown. I was pretty thrilled and hoped my mother would let me wear it to the park. As I went to show her my final decision, a girl about my age, maybe older with her mother was eying the same gown. “Choose Belle, you look just like her!”

I remember my excitement turn to skepticism. I judged the cartoon character on the package with the girl. They were a close match. Until this moment cartoons had been just that: cartoons. They weren’t real people, but looking at this girl I saw they indeed were a match. Brown ringlets, fair skinned.

I felt a wave of mixed emotions, no 5 year old would properly be able to understand nor express. As an adult, I realize I was simply embarrassed. It never occurred to me that these dresses were designed to help you look more like the princess. A princess I could never look like. 

My skin was blacker than it would ever be white. My hair did not flow down my back, although it curled, the curls were tighter and more tamed into individual plats. If it was let loose it would result in a painful detangling session.

I couldn’t be Belle, I actually couldn’t resemble any of these magical Princesses. Yet as I scanned the packed out Disney store, I was the only one who seemed to have that issue. Blonde girls had their picks between Aurora and Cinderella. Hispanic girls would even gravitate towards Jasmine, because of her dark hair and tanned skin. Even girls with pretty “orange” hair (as I remember thinking of it as) looked more like the fish princess. 

I felt a feeling I only dream of protecting my daughters from someday. I was embarrassed and ashamed, not because of something I did. I was embarrassed because of the color of my skin, the way my hair was, I was embarrassed that I didn’t look like a princess. Even worse, I felt like it did not matter if it was my birthday or not, I did not deserve that dress. Only girls that looked like princesses, consequently white girls or fair skinned girls, got to be princesses. I simply did not make the cut and I was embarrassed to say the least. 

My mother came to me, asking if I finally made a decision. She noticed the yellow ball gown I was clutching, “you love Belle, books, and you look so pretty in yellow, I think that’s a good one.”

But no matter what words she said, I knew that I would never look like all of girls who looked like real mini princesses. That gown would not look the same on me as it did on the brown haired girl; in the way it should.

So I opted out, I no longer wanted the dress. I picked a Lion King, spinning, light up, parade toy and a Minnie Mouse spray bottle with an automatic fan. As I left the store with my fun souvenirs that would break after a few months, I also left with something that lasted longer than it should. A not so magical memory: girls that were too dark weren’t to be princesses by Disney’s standards. I would later notice, that we were not to be princesses, fairies, and beyond in many other spaces either. Not in books, movies, Disney, or any place else.

So I moved on. Dress up wasn’t as fun anymore. I gravitated towards movies where animals were the stars. No need for people. Where there was no black or white. No blonde hair and pale skin. 

The lack of representation pushed me out of a sweet stage of life and into beginning of an insecurity. I hated my darker skin and thick curls. After all, it was the prime thing that separated me from being a princess. To me a princess was the holy grail of 5 year old femininity. It was a club that I was not allowed in purely based on the color of my skin. 

*This post is not sponsored by Disney. All thoughts are my own.