When I was five, I threw a tantrum over cake. As pink frosting made contact with my forehead, I looked at my cousin, who began to laugh at the horrified expression on my face. In Indian culture, it is common to have your loved ones feed you cake and smear frosting on your face as a sign of love, respect, and protection from evil. However, at the time, I didn’t understand that. To me, the frosting on my forehead was a sign of betrayal.
My fifth birthday was held in my backyard. The space was decorated with pink streamers, a bouncy house, and princess accessories. It was perfect. The whir of the cotton candy machine and people’s voices fueled my excitement. This event was all about me. It had to be perfect. My mouth hurt from smiling so much, which could have been a result of pure joy, or sugar, or both. I pranced around the yard as everyone commented about how cute my dress and the flowers in my hair were. “Rapunzel also has flowers in her hair,” I said, excited to look like one of my favorite princesses. As receiving compliments from everyone started to become repetitive, I resorted to just smiling and saying thank you, despite not being responsible for my appearance at all. My mom had planned every detail of my outfit down to the flowers in my hair. She meticulously picked out my dress, styled my hair, and put lipgloss on me – after I begged her to because I thought she looked pretty with it on.
“Mom, I don’t like this dress, it’s uncomfy.”
“Saira, you look pretty, like a princess.”
“…okay.”
In her eyes, I looked perfect, almost too perfect. So, she drew a dot behind my ear, meant to serve as an evil eye to protect me from the eyes of others.
My mom is a perfectionist. A trait she passed onto me. When she was younger she scored a 99% on her state exam in 12th grade. She still has not forgotten the mistake she made on that exam that turned her into a failure. New Delhi was not a forgiving place for a young woman with any ambitions unrelated to marriage and starting a family. Perfection was required. Despite getting into the best college in India at the time, my mother carried the burden of her 99% through college, terrified that the 1% she missed would crush her dream of leaving the country and having a successful career. It didn’t, but the 99% haunts her to this day.
My mother passed her drive for perfection to me through carefully tailored bedtime stories. So, when I was five, I wanted to be a princess. In my mind, princesses were perfect, just like my mom was. They never had a hair out of place, walked with grace, and always got a happy ending. They were the definition of success. They never got a 99% on anything.
Therefore, by smearing cake over my face, my cousin ruined my perfect day. A princess never got cake smashed on her face. My perfect outfit, my perfect hair, and my perfect moment were all destroyed by what I didn’t realize at the time was an act of love. Looking back, that moment could not have been more “perfect,” as my cousin passed down a tradition to me. My family had laughed at me with understanding, not malice, as they too had been “betrayed” at a young age.
When he was three, my younger brother threw a tantrum over cake as I stood next to him with a smile on my face and frosting on my hand.
Born to be a LeadHER 