Lee Randall: Pink stinks and I've always known it …

Published on Tuesday 8 December 2009 19:52

WHEN I was wee my favourite colour was purple. I'm told that as soon as I worked out how to manipulate my tongue against my soft palate to form words, I requested that they colour my world "poiple".

I've always disputed the pronunciation. At no point in my life have I spoken like a cartoon Irish cop, prone to such phraseology as "Toity-turd-and-turd" to describe the spot where Thirty-third Street comes into contact with Third Avenue.

I suspect the family projected their own faulty diction onto me. Bronx-born Mom said "awf" when she meant "off" and "cawfee" to request a cup of joe, while her Mum occasionally lapsed into "terlet" and "erl" for "toilet" and "oil".

We were a colourful family in more ways than one. Long after he'd died I learned that my maternal grandfather adored magenta. His daughter, my mum, favoured red, so I despised red for many years, despite it being the colour I look best in, as it complements my sallow complexion and dark hair. But the colour I hated for two solid decades was pink. Pink made me see red. I didn't actually dislike pink as a colour, though the phrase "dusky rose" still brings me out in a rash.

No, what I hated was the phrase, "Pink is for girls and blue is for boys." That outraged me – and still does. I hate being bossed around, most especially when it comes to what I do and do not appreciate.

Such was my aversion to pink that I rejected a needlepoint of roses given to me by my gran – the flowers were red but she'd painted the frame a vile shade I'd now classify as "passion-quencher pink". I coveted the blue picture she'd made for my younger brother. (Needless to say I'd kill to have that hand-wrought tapestry now.)

I also insisted that my parents – who reluctantly decked me out in purple but drew the line at having it on their precious walls – allow me to paint my bedroom a bold shade of blue. To emphasise that I wasn't one for girly frills and fuss, I insisted that every scrap of wood – bookcases, bed and window frames – be stained dark brown.

I wasn't remotely a tomboy, but I took umbrage at anyone suggesting that simply because I was born female I had to behave in a certain way, confine my intellect, or settle for less than my heart's desire. (Little did I know that this is the fate of most adults, regardless of sex. That rude awakening lay ahead.)

I mention all this because I've heard about a campaign called Pinkstinks, advocating that we boycott shops selling pink clothes and toys for little girls on the basis that the colour encourages passivity, and erodes girls' self-esteem by teaching that beauty is more valuable than brains.

Part of me – the embittered part – wants to shout, "Well it's true and the sooner they know it, the better!" Not so they'll roll over and accept this awful truth, but in the hope that they'll rise up and fight this depressing state of affairs.

The Pinkstinks.co.uk website is informative and infuriating. In the name and shame section, for instance, it describes a very pink Scrabble set for girls, where the word spelled out on the front of the box is "fashion," not "astrophysics".

Their manifesto states: "We believe that body image obsession is starting younger and younger, and that the seeds are sown during the pink stage, as young girls are taught the boundaries within which they will grow up, as well as narrow and damaging messages about what it is to be a girl."

I'm feeling extremely proud of my younger self. How clever she was, and how independent of spirit. Three cheers for Mom and Dad, who taught me to think for myself.

Of course it's not the colours that cause all the trouble. But naturally I have to say that, having painted my current living room the deepest red, and my bedroom bubblegum pink!