Of Girls and Gifts

I have no daughters, as many of you know, but to my delight, my husband's sister gave birth to a girl child a mere seven months after my oldest son was born. Coincidentally, not only did my sister in law conceive only weeks after we announced our pregnancy, but also wed only weeks after we did. But that's another rant story for another day.

My niece is at a distinct disadvantage living where she does. Because although growing up in a small town does have its amenities, certain antiquated ideals and attitudes persist. Unfortunately, feminism has not really caught on in the rural South. And though there is certainly no shortage of strong, intelligent, resourceful females, they are not really able to demonstrate their strength and intellect to make a point or achieve an objective. Instead, they must rely on coquettry and bequilement, both of which they have raised to an artform.

This means that they have honed their feminine wiles to perfection and exploit them to the fullest advantage. Needless to say, there is a great deal of time and attention spent on issues that while superficial, are assuredly necessary within the peculiar sociological constructs of the small Southern town.

Those being hair, nails, clothing, rumormongering, queen beeing and oneupwomanship. It's interesting to watch from a sociological and anthropoligical standpoint, but sort of horrifying from a humanitarian perspective.

Anyway...for years I have given my niece books for every birthday and Christmas. There are two reasons for that. First, because she is an only child living in a place where everybody knows everybody. Each year she has huge and lavish birthday parties with more guests than I had at my wedding because to disinclude someone is to invite social disaster and alienation.

She gets mountains of gifts. I would be hard pressed to find an article of clothing or a toy that someone else had not already thought of. But nobody thinks of books. Its the only gift I can get her that is truly unique. And it's the only gift that will bring her joy for years to come. Long after the dolls have lost their clothing and possibly their limbs, long after the clothing has worn out or gotten too small, long after the costume jewelry has lost its lustre...the stories will still have the power to transport a young girl to another place and time.

Secondly, because I worry about what is being done to my niece in terms of her identity and her self-image. There is no doubting that she is a beautiful young girl. She has lustrous golden blonde hair, large expressive blue eyes, and long coltish legs that she hates now, but will appreciate when she is older.

But she is smart, too.

But strangely, no mention was ever made of her academic achievements. I was invited to beauty pageants and dance recitals and cheerleading meets. Much was made of her title, and I was given many photos of her in her sash and crown. But nobody ever told me that she had made it into the gifted program at school. Nobody ever told me she was on the honor roll every single quarter. When I did find out, it was mentioned in passing, in a mumbled offhanded way, much like one would mention the weather, or a bunion, or a casserole.

So I gave her books hoping that maybe someday, if she ever grew to question who she was and what her purpose in life, or in that tiny little town...if she ever wondered what gifts she posessed besides a pretty face...maybe she would realize that somebody, somebody knew that underneath the highlights and the acrylic nails and the hair extension she was a smart girl, a strong girl, a creative and unique girl. And maybe she would read one of those books and understand that she could be MORE than the pretty face she has been praised for all these years.

And there was a third reason, I suppose. I gave her books to share with her all the wonder and magic that helped me through all those awful, awkward times when I didn't know who I was, or what I was; what I wanted to be or what I was supposed to be. I gave her those books so she could lose herself in the pure unadulterated joy of make-believe. How many afternoons did I spend as Laura Ingalls Wilder, or Francie Nolan, or Mary Lennox? Too many to count. Enough that I knew certain passages by heart and could take courage and comfort from my friends even when I couldn't physically open the book and lose myself in it's crisp, paper smelling pages. I gave her those books so she would never, ever be alone.

I always chose the books I gave her with care, mindful of her age, the issues she was surely facing, and the interests she was developing. It was fun. To be quite honest, I bought those books as much for myself as for her. I had so longed to share my literary loves with someone, and I would never have a daughter of my own. I was so excited to introduce her to Anne Shirley, and Nancy Drew and Meg Murry and Sara Crewe and Rebecca Rowena Randall and Velvet Brown and Margaret Simon and.....it would be such fun to talk to her about those girls, who were as real to me as my own sisters.

I couldn't wait.

But a couple of years ago, during one of the infrequent phone calls to his sister, Husband inquired what Niece would like for her birthday. "Uh-huh" I heard him say. "Sure." and then, "Okay, I'll tell her."

Husband looked at me with an expression I now know was a mixture of dread and pity. And then he said quietly, "Sister says Niece doesn't need any more books."

I was stunned. Hurt. Sad. And yes, angry.

There is, quite simply, NO SUCH THING as too many books. And it was hard for me to understand why a parent whose child has every conceivable material thing under the sun would reject an offer of books. I reminded myself that it's a different culture, and at the time, one that was still quite alien to me. Though I realized that she hadn't meant to be hurtful or ungrateful, it was still a big disappointment. But I had to let it go. And I have.

This year while browsing Amazon for gifts, I happened upon a set of books that I hadn't heard of before called "The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants." It sounded delightful and for a moment, I was tempted to buy it and give it to her anyway. But I resisted the urge with only a small pang of regret.

Because you see, I now have another niece. She is three. My Mother swears that by some cosmic accident, my sister has given birth to my child. She has my temperment, she shares my aversion to morning and my love of beauty products. She is "fussy" and "busy" and "bossy". She is a force to be reckoned with.

And I can't friggen wait until she can read.