I was born with a vagina. But please don’t call me princess. I see the temptation. I’m cute. I’m sweet. I’m tiny. You want to put the world at my feet. I get it. But please don’t call me princess.
Because when you do, you imply that I’m waiting to be saved by the prince. Or another girl. Or by someone that isn’t me. And let me let you in on a little secret. I don’t need saving. I’ve got strong women in my life who are ready to show me the way.
And guess what? They didn’t need saving either.
My mama? Left her small farm town where everyone knew her name to chase her dreams. And her mama? And her mama’s mama? And my daddy’s mama? They all got real brave and walked away from things when life got dirty and they didn’t want their babies around what was going on. And my mama’s mama’s mama? Started life again after her husband never came home the war. She didn’t wait to be rescued. There were babies to feed, chores to do, and life to keep on living. So please don’t call me princess.
Call me a hard worker. Call me smart. Call me diligent. Call me adorable if you want. Tell me how sweet my toes are or how you think my poop smells like roses. But please don’t call me princess.
Call me brave. Call me courageous. Call me fierce, witty, wise, or maybe even a rebel or trendsetter. But please don’t call me princess.
Heck, call me some sort of delicious food if you want- cupcake, honey, sweetie pie. Call me apple, call me fig, call me something savory like pretzel or peanut if that’s your cup of tea. But please don’t call me princess.
Someday, I might ask you to call me princess or *gasp* even like princesses pretend games. And when I do, please indulge me. Maybe I’ll ask to be called Belle, Aurora, or Cinderella. But until that happens.
Please don’t call me princess.
Call me by name. It’s Lola, by the way.