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Ribbon

by Prakiti Baral, Melrose High School, shortlisted in 2024

I love ribbons. Pretty pink ribbons and bows to tie up my hair. Not blue though; blue is for boys.

I love dancing. Graceful and tidy movements create works of art. Not soccer though; soccer is for boys.

I love being a girl. We are cute and pretty with our tea parties and dresses. Not boys though; boys have cooties and play in the mud.

Two different teams.

They tell us that everything is for everyone. Girls can be tough. Boys can be feminine.

Okay.

I love caps. Cool blue caps and hats to cover up my hair. Not ribbons though; they’re for babies.

At lunch, we hang out with boys. They don’t have cooties; they are silly and fun. Sometimes we play on the playground, sometimes soccer in the grass. All of us are getting along.

One big team where everything is for everyone.

“What’s with your hair?” someone asks.

“What?” I’m confused. “Nothing’s wrong with my hair.”

“Look,” he nods to the other girls. “Their hair is smooth but yours is different.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what I feel but I wouldn’t say I like it. It feels like my stomach is sinking. I like my frizzy hair, but what if other people didn’t?

On Harmony Day at school, I wear my favourite kurta*.  The wind gently blows my hair behind me, the tiny bells on my silver anklet ring softly as I spring up the hopscotch on my way to class. I’m practically skipping as the sun reflects off the delicate gold details sewn onto the crimson red fabric of my clothes.

A faintly sweet aroma of assorted foods drifts in the air, enticing and inviting, before I enter the hall. I glance around to see people grouped around the French flag and another cluster a few steps away with the Polish flag; each one unique. My heart pounds with excitement and I look around for Sri Lanka and I see it.

In the corner. A deserted wasteland. Empty.

My grin falls.

I’m just someone on the outside watching with no way in.

I wish I could be like other people. I don’t like my frizzy hair, my name, and my darker skin.

Then two new kids walk into the classroom. They are twins. Their names are Advay and Advika. She has the same name as me! They have frizzy hair, a unique name and darker skin. Everyone wants to be their friend.

“You have a twin? That’s so cool!”

Turned into: “I love your poofy hair and I love your name!”

The sinking feeling in my stomach lifted.

I forget about girls being tough. We all do. We are back to pretty hairstyles, but ribbons are still for babies. Some people even wear makeup, but pink is still for little kids. We wear dresses again and just when we think we are happy, it all comes crumbling down again.

“What’s your face shape?”

“What’s your hair type?”

Small details to make us feel bad about ourselves.

If we don’t play a sport, we’re too girly but if we do, we’re not girly enough.

“You run like a girl.”

Maybe because I am, but it brings up the thought: Is it good that I am?

I hate being a girl. Lots of little details to pay attention to but people still judge. They tell us to be comfortable in our own skin but how do we do that if the whispers turn to a voice inside our heads, constantly judging. It’s a whirlpool of thoughts and what ifs and the sinking feeling is permanent.

I wake up to go to the finals for basketball. The voice in my head tells me basketball isn’t a sport for girls. My stomach drops a bit more, but I’m used to it. Just another drop of water in the whirlpool.

I spot the abandoned pink ribbon on my murky oak shelf. I let other people tell me I don’t like pink. I let other people tell me I don’t like ribbons but as I blow the soot off, I hear a new voice: What if I don’t let them?

I grab my oversized t-shirt and shorts. People say I don’t look like a girl if I wear them, but I like the feel of air grazing my bare skin.

I grab my red basketball; its grooves are lined with gold so it looks like it’s glowing. People say it’s too girly for a sport like basketball, but it reminds me of my culture.

My team and I are all wearing green and gold. Green and gold for our country.

We are surrounding the Australian flag we drew with chalk on the scorching hot pavement outside.

I have the rakhi** my sister tied on my left hand for good luck.

My hair frizzes up in the tropical wind, but I don’t mind.

I don’t mind because I have my pretty pink ribbon to tie up my hair.

*A kurta is a traditional South Asian dress.

**A rakhi is a collection of strings tied on one’s hand, usually with one or more charms which gives blessings, luck and protection to the receiver.