I love the color pink. When I stop to wonder why I do, I can’t think of one definite reason, but I still love it. Is it because of the stereotypes engraved into my brain since before I was born? “A girl? I’ll get the perfect pink clothes and toys for her...” is what everyone must’ve thought when they heard the news. But why? What is feminine about pink? And even more ambiguous: what is it about pink that I love? Do I like pink because it makes me feel like I fill in the box of what is expected of me? Because I am a girl? Pink is the color of the butterflies on my wall: a postcard of who I was as a young girl. Pink is the color of gently sun kissed cheeks after a day spent frolicking in the grass, playing outside, taking advantage of mother nature’s gifts. Pink is the color of the fragrant backyard day lilies that always come back every spring, something I can count on. Pink is the color of the cherry blossom tree down the block that I close my eyes and breathe in every spring. Pink is the color of saturated and melted clouds and sunrises: new beginnings, opportunities, and fate. Pink is the color of over half of my wardrobe, most of my childhood toys. Pink is the color of summer watermelon dripping down my chin into the dew-topped luscious backyard grass beneath my bare feet. Pink is the color of fairies, of elegance. Pink is the color of love, the color of roses, the color of a sweet innocent heart before it is stained crimson with love. Pink is the color of the cavity creating cotton candy I used to beg my parents for, craving the sugar on my pink tongue. Pink is a sweet doctor’s office raspberry lollipop with a sour punch, sticking to my tongue. Pink is the color of perfect princess’s dresses, the slight stain of rose on their fare and fragile cheeks. Pink is the color of blush, perfume, lipstick, and girls. It is the color of an angel, the color of innocence.  Pink is the sign of my femininity; it is a piece of me.  

As I’m at that awkward adolescent moment of my life, I don’t know if I still like pink. Is pink something I actually like? Or is it something I am forced to like in order to have something to hide under? Pink is a time capsule, a way to hold onto childhood. Pink is the color of my bedsheets in which I hide from the world under. I hide from the bitter world, bitter people, from growing up. Pink masks my pain, shields me from the inevitability of growing up. Pink protects me, and it allows me to hold onto childhood. Pink is the color I most identify with. Pink is my favorite color for reasons I may never understand. Pink is my shield and my secret weapon. It makes me feel empowered and strong...and like a little girl.