The Power of Pink

I made a new friend yesterday. Her name is Rosemary, and I only met her because she liked my shirt. A pink t-shirt, to be exact, embroidered with the words, “I read banned books.”

I had plans to see the Barbie movie with a friend (for the second time—it’s that good!) and wanted to wear something that made me feel as bold and brave as Barbie when she has to save her world. Not that I’m doing any world saving lately, but living in Texas, it sometimes feels like it. 

Book banning makes the news nearly every day, and each time I read about it, I get more frustrated. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not shy about sharing my viewpoint on issues that matter to me, especially when it comes to books. Books allow us to see the world, and ourselves, in new ways. They offer insight into what it means to be human and remind us that we are not alone, something that is desperately needed in these divisive times.

I wanted to do something, so I began to research ways to take action. I signed some petitions and made some donations, and then, of course, I started getting targeted ads. One of them showed an embroidered shirt that said, “I read banned books” in pretty pink cursive letters. I clicked on it, but it would take six weeks to ship. I couldn’t wait that long. I needed to be out there in that shirt and sharing the message as soon as possible, so I decided to make my own. I found a t-shirt in the back of my closet and the old sewing kit my mom gave me. She’s the one who taught me to sew when I was younger, which feels very much like something out of a Jane Austen novel. 

But rather than being a throwback to when needlework seemed to represent the peak of a woman’s achievement, second only to a socially acceptable marriage, my mom’s instructions were part of the girl power movement. She volunteered to teach sewing through Girl Scouts, meeting weekly with giggling nine year olds in green uniforms and patiently showing us how to form stitches and untangle the knots in our thread. Looking back, there’s a strange contradiction inherent in empowering young girls while teaching sewing, but the feminist message we received back then was full of contradictions. We read biographies of powerful women, then collected Barbies and played dress up. We were told to be strong and independent, then taught how to sit “like a lady” and embroider butterflies and flowers. We learned to believe in our power as women, but the ideas about how that could look were as tangled as our embroidery thread. 

While the letters emerged on my pink t-shirt, I thought about my stay at home mom who waited till her kids grew up to go back and get her PhD. I thought about how I grew up wanting to be both a princess and a Supreme Court justice and planned to wear pink while doing both. And I thought about how as an attorney in the 90s, I put on a pink power suit when I wanted to remind myself that women can do anything, kind of like Barbie. 

Now with three grown children of my own, and entering a new phase of life as a writer and teacher, my “power pink” has new meaning for me. I’ve realized that women can do anything, but we can’t change everything. No one can. I can use my skills and talents to try to make the world better, even if it’s in little ways. 

When Rosemary comments on my pink t-shirt at a coffee shop, she tells me that she wished she had one too. And instead of telling her to look online or simply thanking her, unexpected words fly out of my mouth. “I’ll make you one.” 

Delighted, she sends me a thank you text that evening. Before I can respond, she texts that she’s reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved and adds a pink heart emoji for good measure. 

I know that one pink t-shirt won’t change everything, but I like to think it can help.