I’m a die hard romantic, believing in the fantasy of Cinderella and her prince, but I’m also aware that romance is a subject few women seriously address, especially on Valentine’s Day.
Many people do abhor the thought of Valentine’s Day, so much so that they even attend anti-Valentine’s Day parties. You can toss darts at stupid cupid because he’s the one who has brought misery and pain into your life with his so-called fixer up with a soul mate. Not to mention the fact his dart last shot you in the rump when you were at a single’s bar, and your eyes landed on your soul mate swigging down his fifth vodka and cranberry, but whose counting?
The idea of romance starts off early in young girl’s lives; in elementary school. Valentine’s Day was wonderful for popular girls and agonizing for outcasts, or the timid and shy ones. You always doled out your smallest Valentine card to the classmate you liked the least. It was embarrassing having teachers read off names to come to the front of the class if you weren’t the one being called up. You’d wait, and finally trip the giddy, feigned blushing girl skipping up the aisle to grab another card to add to her growing pile on her desk, all lacy and big. I didn’t say I was the one who did it, but I know classmates who intentionally stayed home, just to avoid the embarrassment of that day.
I did receive my fair share of Valentine’s cards so didn’t fear not getting enough. Cards from boys were another subject because being the only black girl in a white school, a romantic relationship was difficult. In my younger years my color didn’t matter because young children don’t notice color in people unless they were taught.
When I attended school, girls and boys were free to hold hands, sneak kisses, or tug ponytails, without any fear towards being dragged off to the principal’s office to face police and angry parent’s who request charges of sexual abuse or assault be brought against you. The boys I liked and the ones who liked me were sometimes fearful toward what others would think if we were caught in a romantic show of affection. We’d sneak around or swear we were only friends, and the problem wasn’t due to our peers; it was because of adults who noticed us and frowned down on us being together. On Valentine’s Day in my later elementary and middle school years I received plenty of cards from girls, but few from boys.
Still somehow I managed to become a romantic at a young age. My family life was a dysfunctional one, with weak male role models. An abusive father never taught me the lesson on the correct way a man should treat a woman. Fortunately as a self-made romantic, I realized his behavior was abnormal and incorrect. I craved romance, read everything I could on the subject, and as a young teenager began creating romantic fiction. Maybe romance was my escape, but I enjoyed reading about beautiful couples who always smiled at each other, never raged out at each other. This is what I expected to happen in my life. Today I still write on the theme of romance, in fiction and life essays.
Valentine’s Day has turned horrifically commercialized. You can view cards and chocolate hearts on shelves the day after Christmas. The vastness of the number of cards overwhelm me, the insanity of romantic cards for doctors, lawyers, mailmen, or dogs and cats, completely floor me. The idea of romance has really been stretched to benefit the retail markets.
If you celebrate your romantic relationship on Valentine’s Day, that’s wonderful, but the celebration should be based on appreciation. It’s not about physical gifts because romance is emotional, showing respect towards your significant other. Many couples have difficulty with this basic need. Romance needs to be nurtured, not just on one day when you scrawl cards out, buy boxes of chocolate, jewelry, or give a dozen roses.
