Masquerading As Treasure

Pearl.

I was named for my great-grandmother.

Physically, her and I could not be more different. She was a tiny woman, just barely brushing 4'2" of height, with a figure that fit into children's clothing. I am terribly tall for a woman with shoulders that fit better into men's clothes and curves that seem contrary to my otherwise masculine frame. Hers was raven hair, of native american heritage. Mine is the stubborn strawberry of Scottish descent. Her skin was smooth and dark, like polished pearls gleaming at midnight. Mine is freckled and fair. Her eyes were the tone of brown that seems black in the right lighting, an echo of trouble always brewing behind them. Mine are the green of forest glens, the spark of a witch, but innocent nonetheless.

Perhaps that is the key: the trouble brewing behind the eyes.

Perhaps that is why I was named for her.

For hers is a name of great expectation.

She was a woman of worth.

She was a priceless pearl.

I wish to be only a fraction of what she was.

Where I have physical strength, she had strength of spirit.

Where I have bitter dread, she had unflagging optimism.

Where I have exhaustion of tedium, she had perseverance.

Where I cursed God, she bowed her head to pray.

Hers is a name of great expectation.

I try. I try to be everything that I can be, to live up to her name.

They tell me I've done it. They tell me I am a woman of worth. They tell me she is proud from heaven, to be tied to me in name. They tell me she would have liked me.

I believe them.

She would have liked the timid child I was, that hid intelligence in silence. She would have liked the girl, who stood in front of bullied children and told their tormentors to stand aside. She would have liked the teen, who sang and danced and acted her way onto international stages. She would have liked the young mother who taught Sunday school and fostered to others and held her babies all night instead of sleeping. She would have liked the woman who grew vegetables and rolled in grassy fields and made mud pies with children in the backyard. She would have liked the preschool teacher, who held the hands of crying parents, forsaking her paycheck so impoverished children could go to school for free.

She would have liked the parts I share with the world.

But would she like the creature that hides behind my eyes?

The mischief

The hate

The desire to be free of it all-

to runaway-

Would she have liked the part of me that I keep quiet?

I think she would have.

Because she is me and I am her.

In that little part we keep hidden--that spark of mischief that danced in her eyes.

In that tiny hunk of darkness the both of us were given at the center of our souls.

In that strength to crush the ugliness inside of ourselves and mold it into what we'd like the world to see--

what we'd truly like to be:

Pearls.