I had breakfast with my great niece this weekend.
She is six years old and in first grade. She has a lunch box with some pop star I’ve never heard of on it and she likes her teacher, who is nice. She wears a uniform — a khaki skirt and a navy blue polo shirt and she has long black curls that she can toss over her shoulder with a lot of attitude.
We were at a family diner, giving her aunt, my niece, a wedding breakfast and my great niece had the Mickey Mouse pancakes. When they brought her the little metal pitcher of syrup and the little white ceramic container of butter she told me, “I’d like to put this whole thing of butter in my mouth right now — I love butter.”
She told me that, for the wedding, she was going to have her nails painted, and she was going to get to wear lip gloss, and she was going to wear a dress with a “cream skirt and a burgundy top with buttons” and she had to walk out first before the bride and she was nervous, but not afraid.
When the time came, she walked out, posture perfect as a ballerina’s, tiny tiara on her head, and did everyone proud.
They may think that they are going to make her grow up in their Handmaid’s Tale version of patriarchy, but they are wrong. Or, at the very least, they will have to get to her over her great aunt’s dead body to do it.
Picture found here.