During October, I love seeing all the pink out there in support of fighting breast cancer. The barrage of stories of survivors and those who support them warms my heart and inspires me. My neighbor is a breast cancer survivor, and she is an awesome woman and mother. She’s strong and funny and one of the best neighbors anyone could ask for.
I also remember a story from a few years ago about the cross country team at the school where I teach. I hope I get this right. I believe the mother of one of the runners had been battling breast cancer, so the team decided to wear pink socks in her honor when they ran at competitions. They traveled up to New York for a competition and apparently inspired some of the other teams up there. I love the cool stories like that. And now I will also proudly wear pink.
Maybe I should not be as proud of the rest of the outfit (it was homecoming week).
It wasn’t always that way for me though. Once upon a time, I loathed pink. I’m not sure I really know why I detested pink so much, but I think it had to do with what I felt it symbolized at the time- froo-froo girliness- yuck! I wasn’t a tomboy or anything, but I was never really girlie either, and pink seemed to epitomize all things frilly and girlie… and weak.
Somewhere through the course of time I began to accept and even like pink. As I grew older, pink began to symbolize the strength in femininity: pink tool kits, pink camouflage (though I’m not sure what one can blend into with this), and pink firearms.
Walther P22- I need this!
And now grown, rugged men wear pink to support their moms, their wives, and their sisters. It seems my pink nightmare is truly over.
Now, go in pink, I mean peace.
caverns of my mind 