My Pink Hula Hoop

I was five years old and idolized my ten year old sister. It would be the only time in my life that I would want to be like her.

My grandmother’s home is a typical large Florida home. Papi had gone to the store that day and had bought us some hula-hoops. We were ecstatic and ran outside with them. The warm spring sun welcomed us as the soft moist grass lay under us. Papi’s fruit trees swayed with the soft breeze as the intoxicating scent of papaya filled the air. My sister held both of them close to her. They were both different colors, and I asked her if I could have the purple one.

She looked at me with a hard face and said “No! You get the ugly pink one because it’s ugly just like you.” With that, she tossed it on the floor next to me. I looked at it with melancholy brown eyes. My sister played with hers looking at me laughingly. I cried knowing it was true, but I nonetheless loved the hula-hoop. I loved that simple pink ring of plastic because it meant that I wasn’t the only thing that was ugly. I picked it up with a tear stained face and carefully brought it up to my waist and started to sway my hips. It fell to the ground with a thump.

“God Nina! You can’t even use a hula-hoop,” she laughed.

I looked at her with fierce determination, picked it up and tried again and again until I finally got it work. I felt free in the days warm sunlight, and thought for a moment that I was worthy of being with her, but then with an overcast sky up above she came up to me and pushed me down to the ground. My sister took my perfect hula-hoop and tossed it aside. I stood there sobbing as my sister walked away laughing. I decided from then on to be anything but what she was even if it meant being ugly.