{"id":11569,"date":"2008-05-01T17:47:00","date_gmt":"2008-05-01T17:47:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/production.ou.org\/life\/other\/flecked_with_gold\/"},"modified":"2015-10-29T08:42:21","modified_gmt":"2015-10-29T13:42:21","slug":"flecked_with_gold","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.ou.org\/life\/inspiration\/flecked_with_gold\/","title":{"rendered":"Flecked With Gold"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Everything changed for me that year. It seemed like I a light went on and I suddenly saw things clearly. How cute my sister was, with her huge blue eyes and the missing front teeth. How charming my brother was, with his black hair and his broad, white smile.<\/p>\n

That was the year I looked in the mirror and saw my crazy, curly hair and slanty, brown eyes and poky little chin and realized I was ugly.<\/p>\n

I was twelve then, and in the seventh grade. I was part of a big, popular group of girls and I was the funny, smart one, which was fine. But what I really wanted was to be the pretty, rich one. And that slot was permanently taken by Pessy Soller.<\/p>\n

Pessy Soller had brown hair but she said that it was \u201cchestnut\u201d and her brown eyes, she claimed, were \u201cflecked with gold.\u201d I believed her. The fluorescent classroom bulb shone down on the top of her sleek, shoulder length bob and made a kind of U shaped glow of light, one that I knew would never be replicated on my kinky curls. Her green cardigan was Bennetton and her socks had the little Izod alligator. We all wore plaid uniforms but hers looked chic, cosmopolitan. She had a brown leather headband. I couldn’t stop staring.<\/p>\n

When I stood next to Pessy at choir practice, I could smell her Apple Pectin shampoo. As she sang her nostrils flared delicately. I thought it looked poetic, but my sister said it looked horsey. Of course, my sister was only in fourth grade, so who cared what she thought anyway?<\/p>\n

On Sunday, I took my mother to Jamie\u2019s Beauty Supply Store on Coney Island and showed her the bottle of Apple Pectin shampoo. It cost six dollars. Six Dollars! That was enough to buy a whole pie of pizza on a Thursday night. I knew it was too much for shampoo. My mother looked at the bottle and then she looked at my face. She put the shampoo on the counter and opened her purse to pay.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t Pessy have the most exotic coloring?\u201d I asked my mother over breakfast, the next day. The sweet apple scent of my head was overpowering. My mother looked up from her coffee. \u201cShe has brown hair and brown eyes, just like you,\u201d she answered. \u201cNo!\u201d I said, offended on Pessy\u2019s behalf, \u201cHer hair is chestnut and her eyes are flecked with gold.\u201d My mother looked at me steadily. \u201cYou can change the name of a color, Shira, but that doesn\u2019t change the color. You know that.\u201d I sat in the back seat of the bus, all the way to school, and wondered what she meant.<\/p>\n

One day after school, a whole group of us went over to Pessy\u2019s house. We hung out in her basement for a while and right before I left she showed me her new flute. \u201cPessy Soller is learning to play the flute!\u201d I announced proudly, over dinner, that night. My brother rolled his eyes. \u201cShe\u2019s really very rich.\u201d I reached, firmly, for the soda.<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s voice was so quiet. \u201cShe\u2019s very rich?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYup.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, how did she make her money?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up. \u201cShe didn\u2019t make the money, Abba, she\u2019s a kid. Her father made the money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d said my father. \u201cSo her father\u2019s very rich.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d I answered.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, tell me,\u201d he said slowly, deliberately, \u201cHow did he make his money?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, he works with her grandfather, in her grandfather\u2019s company.\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see. So it\u2019s not really his money either. It\u2019s his father\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d I said hesitantly, \u201cI mean, I guess.\u201d My mother was looking down at her plate, the smallest smile on her fine lips. After that, my father took to calling Pessy, \u201cThe Harpist.\u201d \u201cHow\u2019s your friend?\u201d he would ask, \u201cAnd her harp?\u201d<\/p>\n

I understood what he meant, sort of. Some of the stuff she did was a little pretentious. But still. I thought I might feel better if my hair was straight too. I broached the topic one night while my mother washed the dishes. \u201cI want to have my hair straightened,\u201d I said, in my most grown-up voice, perched on the corner of the counter. My mother looked up from the dishes, her caramel eyes calm in her oval face. \u201cNo.\u201d she said. I was indignant. \u201cWhat do you mean \u2018No\u2019? It\u2019s my hair!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. And you’re my daughter. Besides, you have beautiful hair.\u201d She reached one warm, wet hand to touch my curls and then my cheek and turned back to the dishes. \u201cI’ll let you straighten it when you turn sixteen,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd by then, you won’t want to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWill too.\u201d I muttered under my breath and jumped off the counter before the dishwater had even dried on my face.<\/p>\n

Honestly, I knew I didn’t stand a chance. I wasn’t even allowed to wear lip gloss. But if I couldn\u2019t have what I wanted at least I could talk about it. \u201cPessy Soller said, that the decorator said, that she\u2019s painting a mural on the ceiling!\u201d I announced one night, besotted. My father muttered that that seemed just right for people with their noses always up in the air. The look my mother gave him could have peeled paint. Undaunted, I continued, \u201cAnd, Pessy said that the lady at the beauty salon offered her twenty dollars for her hair. Twenty dollars!\u201d My father said he would pay me twenty dollars if I would just stop talking about Pessy Soller. Then he circled his fingers around the delicate bones of my wrist and squeezed lightly to let me know that he loved me.<\/p>\n

That week, Pessy came into class with big news. Her doctor said that she might have a slipped disc. She might even need to wear a neck brace. For six weeks! It was all anyone could talk about. I thought of how romantic, and tragic and brave she was soldiering on in the face of adversity. I wished I could have a slipped disc. But the only braces I had were on my teeth, ugly and shiny. Every time I smiled, my brother pretended to check his reflection.<\/p>\n

It was all too much, the braces and the hair and the slanty brown eyes. And finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, when I couldn\u2019t stand my ugly face for even another moment, I sat down at the kitchen table, and cried.<\/p>\n

My mother found me there. \u201cWhy are you crying?\u201d she asked, alarmed. \u201cBecause I’m ugly, ugly, ugly,\u201d I answered, tears clotting my voice, my face red and puffy as a bee-sting. My mother sidled next to me on the chair and my head went down on her shoulder. \u201cI\u2019m not nearly as pretty as Pessy Soller!\u201d I sobbed into her sweater, and hoped that she could hear me. She heard me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Pessy Soller is a very pretty girl,\u201d and her voice was calm and assured. \u201cIn fact, she may even be prettier than you are right now. But, Shira,\u201d her hands lifted my head, straightened my face to look into hers, \u201cPessy Soller will always be a pretty girl. You\u2019re going to be a beautiful woman.\u201d I looked up at my mother, her even, honest face, her understanding eyes. She smiled at me and I smiled shakily, back at her. Then she sent me to the bathroom to wash my face. That night, I went to bed, with my mother\u2019s words ringing in my ears like a promise.<\/p>\n

The next day, I went into school and stood in the doorway. Pessy was in the center of the room, surrounded by the usual swarm of admirers. She was showing off her new, suede boots. The classroom light shone down on her shiny, chestnut hair, as I looked at her. And I let her have it, the moment and the spotlight and the heavy, sweet shampoo. She was a very pretty girl and that was okay.<\/p>\n

She could have today. I was waiting for tomorrow.<\/p>\n

\"image\"<\/div>\n

From the upcoming anthology<\/i> Everyone’s Got a Story — 42 short stories from a new generation of Jewish writers, edited by Ruchama K. Feuerman (Judaica Press, May 2008). Order Today!<\/a><\/i><\/p>\n

Yael Zoldan is a Brooklyn girl, who lives in Passaic, New Jersey, with her husband and children. Somewhere between carpool and laundry she finds the time to write.<\/i><\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Everything changed for me that year. It seemed like I a light went on and I suddenly saw things clearly. How cute my sister was, with her huge blue eyes and the missing front teeth. How charming my brother was, with his black hair and his broad, white smile. That was the year I looked<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":227,"featured_media":43502,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_cloudinary_featured_overwrite":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[85],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11569","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-inspiration"],"yoast_head":"\nFlecked With Gold - OU Life<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"I was 12 then. I was part of a big popular group of girls and I was the funny, smart one which was fine. 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