My Favorite Color

When I was five years old, I remember being asked what my favorite color was.  I was in the car riding home.  I cannot remember who was with me, who asked the question, or why I have this unusually vivid memory of a simple question, but I do remember my answer.  As we passed down an old barn that had been converted into a preschool that was painted a maroon, I said "red".  Red was my favorite color.  loved the color of firetrucks and finger paints.  The red I loved was the color of circles on a Twister mat, and of strawberries in June.  I was certain of this fact, that I loved the color red.

When I started Kindergarten, I was asked by teachers and classmates what my favorite color was.  I was the only girl in my class that said her favorite color was red.  Why was I so alone for having this opinion?  Why were there only boys that agreed with my affinity for this beautiful color?  All the girls loved pink, purple and blue.  I felt obligated to conform.  Red became in my mind a boy's color, so why should I, a girl, like it?  My new favorite color became purple, because as a girl, it was the right thing to do.  

Us girls were told at a young age which colors we should like.  My parents were obviously not going to try to make me find a new favorite color.  It is something so simple and nearly meaningless, but if it was completely meaningless, would I remember it so clearly thirteen years later?  Why did I feel the pressure to conform and agree with my female peers and choose purple as a new favorite color?

As a girls, we were told to have these opinions and to love these "girl" colors.  We were taught to not love a color such as red.  Red was the color of firetrucks.  It was the color of blood, the blood that flowed when boys jumped off the swings and scraped their knees.  

The boys were not afraid to jump off the swings, even if it meant their knees might become scraped up.  I wanted to jump off the swings too, but I was afraid.  I was not afraid of scraping my knees or getting hurt.  I was not afraid of being different from my friends.  I wanted to show them I was fearless, but I could not.  I was afraid of what the teachers would think.

The teachers expected the girls to be an example.  The girls had to be well behaved in order to set an example for the boys.  They had to uphold the behavior that was expected of the class.

The boys were jumping off swings, climbing up slides, and standing on the monkey bars.  The girls stood by and never did because we were the role models.  We were symbols of what children were supposed to be like, right? Or by standing aside, not participating in adventure, deciding to choose purple as a favorite color over red, were we carrying out hundred year old stereotypes about girls not being able to break out from their assigned gender roles?