Pink.

“PINK IS FOR GIRLS!!!”

That was the motto I learned growing up. That boys got action figures and weapons, whereas girls got pink little dolls and “playsets.” Any boy caught having anything pink would lose his name and be designated a new one on the spot. “Faggot,” “Gay,” “pussy,” “girl,” words that were associated with being weak, were also associated with having the color pink.

“Pink is for girls.”

I learned that lesson from my best friend’s mom. You see, she was a woman who was the epitome of “diva.” Always primed and ready for the world to look at her, she made sure to have manicured nails, finely waxed legs, freshly plucked eyebrows, and most importantly, properly combed hair. In her words, a woman is her hair, and so always spent the most time on that part of herself every day. She was very proud of her endless collection of top tier hair products, something I could never understand because I don’t even have a comb.

“Pink is for girls.”

My best friend’s mom had a policy of never wearing pink, because she felt it made her look, “girly,” when she wanted to be “powerful.” She felt that wearing pink would mean people wouldn’t take her seriously. She hated the color and all the misogyny that it caused. But as much as she tried to stay away from being pink, pink would soon become a part of her.

“Pink” one day was a routine jog that took twice as long and was three times as hard.

“Pink” was eventually feeling too tired to go out with loved ones.

“Pink” was a creeping disease that slowly took over her body and broke her down.

“Pink” became breast cancer.

The day my best friend told me, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t understand. ‘She was so healthy’ I thought. But I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know 1 in 8 women are diagnosed a year. I didn’t know that 85% of breast cancers occur in women who have no family history of it. I didn’t know that the reason I made my best friend’s mom cry was because I asked why there’s so many hair products in the trash can. I didn’t know that “pink” would make her lose all the strands of her pride.

Pink was an enemy, but with time, it became an ally. It was more than just a color now. It became a ribbon to bare. It became the people who supported her through treatment. It became the color I was proud to wear. Pink became the color of strength, one she wore to tell people that she was a fighter who survived years of battles.

“Pink is for girls,” my best friend’s mom told me.

Because girls,

are,

powerful.