I remember the first time someone called me pretty: I was at a church in Saint Louis visiting family and a woman leaned down and told me “us pretty people don’t have to worry about as much”. I wasn’t sure that I agreed. I was too young to have yet qualified myself in the category of people that others looked at as “pretty”. It seemed my mirror reflection changed every day; most of the time I couldn’t even imagine that the clothes that hung in my closet would fit on my body. So, I learned to trust others’ perceptions of me. I accepted that I was things like “beautiful” and “pretty” only because people told me.