We're living in a world so utterly bizarre that even the rainbow has a rigid bouncer, checking IDs at the door for "gender clearance."
Blue: "Sorry, fellas only. Stamped on their birth certificates before they can even spell 'B-O-Y'."
Pink: "Ladies' night exclusively. Stitched onto every girl's future, no choice required."
If a little guy dares to reach for a shade of bubblegum, society collectively gasps: "Wrong! Blasphemy!" If a girl decides a tiny plastic car is infinitely cooler than a dolly that just stares blankly, she's labeled "different" — maybe even an alien.
It’s peak irony, really. Our society is more terrified of a five-year-old in a fuschia shirt than it is of actual violence. We'll mock a girl holding a toy wrench faster than we'll question deep-seated inequality.
We say we glorify being unique, being an "individual." Then we immediately suffocate that glorious weirdness with cardboard labels and invisible gender cages.
Truth?
Colors are just light reflecting off surfaces; they don't have chromosomes. Dreams are just messy electrical signals in your brain; they don't have a specific biological destiny.The only thing with a gender, folks, is the incredibly flimsy, easily dismantled cage we keep building around ourselves.
Colors don't belong to boys or girls. Dreams do.
Every single day, we walk through a reality so strange it almost feels like a dream. It's a world where picking a shirt in a certain color can cause a bigger stir than terrible news reports. We're all tied to an invisible contract that tells us who we are supposed to be based on the colors we wear.The Unwritten Rulebook We Didn't Sign Up For.
Think back to childhood. From the moment a baby arrives, the world is in a rush to assign a uniform. Blue was slapped onto the boys, a heavy badge of expected toughness and quiet strength before they could even form the words "I am." Pink was draped over the girls, a soft, passive suggestion of kindness and domesticity. It wasn't just about making things look nice; it was about shaping our entire lives.
This system is so deeply embedded that when someone steps outside the lines, we feel a strange jolt. I remember seeing a little boy tentatively reaching for a magenta marker in a classroom once. You could almost feel the tension as an adult gently steered him back toward the primary colors deemed "boy-appropriate." A girl who preferred taking apart a toy car to cradling a doll? She was whispered about as "different," an anomaly needing correction. we’ve somehow made peace with a world full of violence and inequality, yet we are existentially threatened by the idea that a person might simply like a color "meant" for the other gender.
Think about the sheer amount of energy we waste policing these lines. The fear of a "boy in pink" — a perfectly harmless choice of clothing — often seems stronger than our collective will to tackle the real, actual violence that affects our neighborhoods. We are quicker to judge the girl holding a toy wrench than to question the deep, unfair systems that might limit her future in engineering.
But the truth, when you strip away all the rules, is so beautifully simple: colors have no gender. Our dreams, our potential, the things that light us up inside — they don't follow these made-up rules either.
Blue: "Sorry, fellas only. Stamped on their birth certificates before they can even spell 'B-O-Y'."
Pink: "Ladies' night exclusively. Stitched onto every girl's future, no choice required."
If a little guy dares to reach for a shade of bubblegum, society collectively gasps: "Wrong! Blasphemy!" If a girl decides a tiny plastic car is infinitely cooler than a dolly that just stares blankly, she's labeled "different" — maybe even an alien.
It’s peak irony, really. Our society is more terrified of a five-year-old in a fuschia shirt than it is of actual violence. We'll mock a girl holding a toy wrench faster than we'll question deep-seated inequality.
We say we glorify being unique, being an "individual." Then we immediately suffocate that glorious weirdness with cardboard labels and invisible gender cages.
Truth?
Colors are just light reflecting off surfaces; they don't have chromosomes. Dreams are just messy electrical signals in your brain; they don't have a specific biological destiny.The only thing with a gender, folks, is the incredibly flimsy, easily dismantled cage we keep building around ourselves.
Colors don't belong to boys or girls. Dreams do.
Every single day, we walk through a reality so strange it almost feels like a dream. It's a world where picking a shirt in a certain color can cause a bigger stir than terrible news reports. We're all tied to an invisible contract that tells us who we are supposed to be based on the colors we wear.The Unwritten Rulebook We Didn't Sign Up For.
Think back to childhood. From the moment a baby arrives, the world is in a rush to assign a uniform. Blue was slapped onto the boys, a heavy badge of expected toughness and quiet strength before they could even form the words "I am." Pink was draped over the girls, a soft, passive suggestion of kindness and domesticity. It wasn't just about making things look nice; it was about shaping our entire lives.
This system is so deeply embedded that when someone steps outside the lines, we feel a strange jolt. I remember seeing a little boy tentatively reaching for a magenta marker in a classroom once. You could almost feel the tension as an adult gently steered him back toward the primary colors deemed "boy-appropriate." A girl who preferred taking apart a toy car to cradling a doll? She was whispered about as "different," an anomaly needing correction. we’ve somehow made peace with a world full of violence and inequality, yet we are existentially threatened by the idea that a person might simply like a color "meant" for the other gender.
Think about the sheer amount of energy we waste policing these lines. The fear of a "boy in pink" — a perfectly harmless choice of clothing — often seems stronger than our collective will to tackle the real, actual violence that affects our neighborhoods. We are quicker to judge the girl holding a toy wrench than to question the deep, unfair systems that might limit her future in engineering.
But the truth, when you strip away all the rules, is so beautifully simple: colors have no gender. Our dreams, our potential, the things that light us up inside — they don't follow these made-up rules either.
and I love pink too.It is not about the color we like but it's just a natural response not forced upon us