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Delilah a dark-skinned teenage girl sits at her dressing table, staring at herself in the mirror.
It usually takes up to a minute for people to stereotype you. That’s all we get a minute.
I guess that’s why mother works so hard to make me fit for society.
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We’re all equal.
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That’s what Mrs. bridges tells us all the time, she says we should love ourselves the way we are. Every young lady is charming, amazing, resourceful, beautiful, divine, witty, short, tall, fat and skinny in her own way.
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We’re all differently the same.
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But we’re not. When I told mother what she said; mother exclaimed “Don’t you believe a word that woman says!” Which is quite hard considering she is my English teacher. Mother conveyed a little piece of advice to me “darling listen to me people don’t like other people for who they are, they like them for who they pretend to be.” Wouldn’t you say mother’s advice is more realistic? When mother dies at the age of 210, at her funeral I can I say “my mother give really realistic advice. Bye.”
I wonder what our math’s homework is? I would know if Michelle hadn’t keep going on about public schools.” kids in public schools steal cars, eggs houses and throw food!” When I inquired how she knew this was true she replied, “I watch channel 4 documentaries!” I don’t know how that answers my question but I couldn’t be bothered to talk to her anymore. So I just smiled. Anne hated Michelle.
Delilah gets up, walks to her wardrobe. Contemplates wearing the brown or the black dress.
What choice!
She looks over to the red party dress her grandmother got her for Christmas.
“Red is for clowns, whores alongside the Indians.” Mother loves to discuss the faults and strangeness of the Indians. Considering she is darker than any Indian I have ever met and her thoughts just as strange. I think I should be able to wear red.
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But I’m not.
Fade to black
Delilah is sitting at a long table with her mother and father. Looks up at the wall where the family portrait uses to be.
It is illogical to have such a long table for four people. Well it’s 3 now. I remember when Anne and I were little and we would hold hands under the table while eating dinner. The warmth from her hand expelled mother’s arctic words and judgment. I remember when father had human characteristics.
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Anne was able to rebel! She knew how to deal with people. She knew how to command attention.
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I want her back.
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They took her away. They put her in the taxi, told me she wasn’t part of this family anymore.
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“Pregnant tart acting like she didn’t come from a proper home” exclaimed mother for weeks. Anne didn’t get kicked out for getting pregnant; she got kicked out for being human. This was a person with real opinions, thoughts and a brain god gave her to use. Imagine how much every fibre of your being must hurt when: you are given a list of people who should be your friends; when another person has been picking your clothes for the last 15 years; they even get to decide whether or not you keep your baby.
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“People don’t like other people for who they are, they like them for who they pretend to be.” What about me! Does what I think not matter, does the fact that I resent her with all my being mean nothing. So many times I have imagined my mother dropping dead many times. I don’t like you for who you are. Which is funny cause I’m turning into you.
Pause
Ha-ha yes! I have no real worth, my sister held the real value of the family. But she went haywire so you tried to fix up the other one.
Delilah is sitting on a bed that is not her own. In a room we have never seen before.
I wonder what their going to do when they realize I'm not pregnant.