i stumbled across this passage while reviewing for an exam.
i feel her pain. i feel society's pressure. i feel my
family's pressure. i feel my own pressure, of not being
enough in the eyes of the world. to be smart or to be
pretty...that is the question. a hawk eye's view of
* * * * * *
At the tennis parties for the young folk on the serene
lawns and courts of Kissing Point Road, I was the fat girl
who looked like coconut ice when she blushed. I had not
been kissed at any point. Some boys, gallant by nature
perhaps, or attracted by Father's rumored money, or most
likely doing it for a dare, attempted conversation. No one
attempted tennis. There was one with hair the color of
autumn who held my hand and told me I was gorgeous. When I
watched him later, laughing with a girl whose tan was as
smooth as a leaf, I wished I could hide, but there was no
place to hide in those sunny gardens.
In the shade, under the jacaranda where no profane
kookaburra ever perched and cackled, white-clothed tables
were spread with food and here I could at least console
myself with another slice of cream pie.
'She is bright, of course,' I heard the mothers tell each
other as they fanned themselves under the jacarandas. 'She
is ever so clever.' I gulped down the last of my cream pie
and filled my mouth with noisy ginger beer but nothing
could stop me from hearing. 'It is just as well,' some
mother said languidly, and loudly enough to carry. 'Is she
feeding those brains of hers, do you think?' The tinkling
of so many titers, and their faces all turned towards me
behind their fans, drove me like a thwarted cow back out of
the shade and onto the terrible sunlit stage of the lawn.
On the lawn, all the young folk were at ease with their
futures. Here, everyone was graceful, leaning on a croquet
mallet or swinging a tennis racquel. They were not troubled
by much, these confident people, and most troubles could be
washed out in soap and water, or laughed away.
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