Young Writers Society

Something a dug up from the bottom of my desk:

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All of my life, I've been told I was beautiful, but I've never understood.

When I was young, my mom told me stories that involved characters with no special physical traits, but they were beautiful because of the good in their hearts. They were loved not for having a perfect figure or a fair face, but for their personality and wits. My mom taught me beauty is within.

Strangers used to stop my mother and I while we were on a walk, and say, cooing down at me, "Your little girl is so beautiful."

My mom would smile and thank them for the compliment, but I was so confused. I'd hide behind her skirt, clutching her hand tightly; pudgy fingers, sticky and sweet, squeezing the elegance from hers. How could people tell that I was beautiful? How could they see inside me just by glancing at me? How did they know? And were they right?

At home, I used to stare at the mirror, trying to decipher the code. What about me gave away my personality? For the longest time, I thought it was my eyes. I would stare into them through my reflection, searching for a clue, and finding none.

My younger sister was born when I was four years old. Her crib was erected inside my parents' room. When she was first brought home, I clutched the bars of the crib as she was placed gently down among the soft fleece blankets.

"Cecilia," that was what the newcomer was called. "It's such a beautiful name."

"For a beautiful girl," my father winked roughly in response to my mother.

How did they know? Staring down at the infant, all I saw was pink skin. I couldn't tell she was beautiful. How could my parents?

"How do you know, Daddy?" I asked.

He frowned at me, two thick eyebrows sliding across his forehead. "Know what?"

"Know that she's beautiful."

My father let out a sort of chocked laugh. He thought my question was amusing, but was trying not to chuckle because I was so serious. My mother, on the other hand, made a sound in the back of her throat.

"Isabelle," she picked me up around the middle and sat me on the bed. "There are two different types of beauty. There is the beauty inside people, the goodness within. And there is the beauty on the outside."

I mulled this information over in my mind, staring at my once-white shoes as the bounced against the side of the bed. "But what does beauty on the outside look like?"

My mom paused a moment, not answering at first. She smiled and said, "Beauty on the outside is decided by what other people think looks nice."

It was all so confusing to me. I wanted to ask more, but Cecilia started crying, and my parents abandoned me at the side of the bed.

By the time my youngest sister, Marie, was born, I was six years old, and not so naive. I knew that people liked my dark brown, curly hair, and my large green eyes. I knew that people thought models, with their sleek, long, tanned legs and pouty lips, were the examples of beauty-at least, on the outside. When my parents cooed over Marie's delicate prettiness, I knew that they were talking about her physical beauty soon to come, and of the beauty of a newborn. I knew a lot more about beauty, but I still preferred the beauty within.