The Smart One

"Do you want to watch me dance?" my sister Julie used to ask anyone who came to visit us when we were little. It didn't matter who it was -- a relative, friend, UPS delivery man -- Julie would dance for anyone who walked through the door. It didn't take much to persuade Julie to put on her white tulle tutu with red sequins, her princess tiara, and her striped tights. After getting dressed, she'd dramatically parade out into the living room, turn on the radio, and perform an entire routine of kicks, jumps, and somersaults.

One of her performances sticks out in my memory because it was the one that shaped our relationship and cemented our roles in our extended family. It was Thanksgiving. I was eight, and Julie was five. My aunt brought her new boyfriend (who would become my uncle) to meet the family for the first time. Julie, of course, immediately greeted everyone enthusiastically, and especially Jerry, our future uncle. She wore her tutu with sequins and had smeared some of Mom's blush on her cheeks. "I'll dance for everyone!" she shouted as she turned up the music. I never saw the dance because I was hiding in my bedroom closet.

I used to make secret forts in my bedroom closet so that I could have some privacy, as Julie and I shared a bedroom when we were young. I'd rigged up a lamp in there, had a little stool with a pillow on it for me to sit on, and my entire collection of Laura Ingalls Wilder books on the floor. I also kept a ready supply of paper (lined and unlined, of course), pencils, and crayons. During Julie's performance, I was in my closet, reading The Long Winter. "Where's [My First Name]?" I heard someone ask from the living room. "She must be reading," my Mom answered. I heard footsteps coming toward my room from the hallway. The closet doors slowly parted. There stood Jerry.

He sat down in my closet, right next to me, and asked me about my book. Then he asked to see some of my drawings. It was the first time I'd met him, and I knew from that moment that I'd come to love him. As we chatted, the closet door opened again. It was my aunt. "Jerry! You're missing Julie's dance!" she said, giggling. "She's just so cute out there." Jerry explained that he had been talking with me about my book. "Ah, good," my aunt said, "you're learning about my favorite nieces. Julie is The Cute One and [My First Name] is The Smart One."

The Smart One and The Cute One. I don't think my aunt meant anything negative by that comment, but it has nonetheless haunted me since then. Julie is three years younger than I am, and she's always been cute as a button and outgoing. As a baby she had chubby cheeks, peach fuzz on her head, and the fattest and cutest little ankles you've ever seen. As a toddler, she was always rosy-cheeked and pleasantly chubby, and her hair was always turned under in a perfect little bob. She loved to wear pink, frilly dresses and have ribbons in her hair. Now, as a woman of 28, Julie is a successful stylist for Aveda in Home State. Because of her job and because she's Julie, she always looks fantastic: perfect haircut, flawless makeup when she needs it, trendy clothes, funky jewelry, and a trim size 6 body.

On the other hand, I have never thought of myself as cute or pretty or anything like that. I felt (and to some extent still feel) that I cannot be cute or pretty, because I am The Smart One. Being The Smart One means that outward appearances aren't nearly as important as what you say or what you know, or how many degrees you have. Being The Smart One means that, over the years, I haven't paid much attention to my weight or size (I stepped on a scale for the first time in a long time last fall), the cut or color of my hair, the state of my skin. It's not that I didn't want to pay attention to these things -- I did, sometimes -- but rather that I didn't feel like I should: Julie is The Cute One -- let her think on those things while I read and write.

It's amazing how comments and experiences from childhood shape us and how we think about ourselves well into adulthood. I'm 31 years old and still feel compelled to be The Smart One when I'm around my extended family, and Julie still fills the role of The Cute One. Julie always jokes about how, although I was getting a Ph.D., she didn't even finish college. And I always make some sarcastic remark about my dated, small wardrobe and my crazy hair while commenting on Julie's perfect outfit and fresh haircut. It's hard to break out of the pigeonholes your family has placed you in.

A few weeks ago, Julie and I had a wonderful conversations about being The Cute/Smart One. It started off with Julie commenting that she'd like to go back to school and earn a degree in marketing. "I like what I do now," she said, "but there's more to my brain than just cutting and coloring hair." Over the phone, we brainstormed some possibilities and I helped her get information on some academic programs (she doesn't have a computer -- gasp!). The conversation moved to other things. Finally, I asked her something I've never felt comfortable asking her before: "Julie? Do you think that... I mean, the next time we're together... you could maybe show me.... ummm. Well, could you show me how to put on makeup?" Julie laughed and then agreed to teach me, at 31 years old, the glories of mascara and eye makeup (I don't own either; I only wear lipstick).

Maybe it's the new job and a feeling of starting over that has forced me to think of myself outside of The Smart One mold. I've spent decades making my mind more beautiful, making my thoughts attractive on paper and in lectures. Perhaps it's finally time to pay attention to the outside, so that I can feel as good and confident about my body as I do about my mind. "Wouldn't it be fun to trade personalities sometime," Julie joked at the end of our conversation, "so that you could feel cute and I could feel smart?" I laughed and replied, seriously, "Why can't we both feel... both?" Indeed. Why not?