In my head, I like to pretend I had a pink room as a child and that I was allowed to embrace all thing's girl. That never happened.
I was raised by my grandparents in the middle of the prairies of Canada. The hardware store where one shopped for clothes, furniture, housewares, bedding and bath wares, office supplies, garden and combining needs … was limited in colour selection. There was "sturdy brown," "sensible beige," "serviceable John Deere green," "coal black," "steel grey," and "combine red." Sometimes they got crazy and threw the colours into a floral pattern or even a plaid. The line for those items would be all the way down the street to the Combine parts catalogue store. Nothing makes you feel more young and alive than knowing your grandparents have the exact same outfit that you do.
If I had been born on the ground in a dirt shack and wore nothing but beaver pelts … I would never have been a brown girl. God made me allergic to brown. I did not do brown. If someone tried to make me, I threw up and got hives. Once I think I may have even killed a goat. I can't be sure, but the last thing I remember was being made to wear brown pants and then I woke up and there was a goat hoof in my pocket and bits of goat fur caught in my teeth. Something happened and I was there, lying in the neighbours haystack and there were no live goats in sight. Brown does that to me.