The Tribal Princess

With the rise of the sun, I perform my daily ritual,

One that has been practiced for many moons,

And for more generations than the count of the stars,

A practice held dearly by my ancestors.

 

I apply the crude coal outline to lids that are powdered

In a range of bright, shimmering color,

With pink smeared highlights across my cheeks,

Complementing the blood red stained lips

Which leave their mark on every surface of its touch

Including the collar of the one who causes my tribal paint to smudge.

My pale, powdered face

Winces at the sight of the metal tool

That I press firmly against my lids.

 

I remember my excitement at the moment

My mother told me I was of age

To practice this tradition alongside her.

I remember those days where I would sit quietly

Admiring the transformation she undergone

Into a beautiful, exotic creature that I did not recognize.

Now I sit here with my reflection before me

Mimicking the similar hand motions and techniques

Of not only my mother, but of all the tribal princesses,

Just for those rare moments of gawking and admiration.

 

I wonder how many more generations will use this mask.

We are no different from the Aztecs,

Using our colored faces to devour and steal the hearts of others

Proudly displaying our catch for all to see.

No different from the Mayans

Continuing these traditions until the end of our calendar.

No different from the Native Americans

Using our streaks as a road of connection to the beautiful idols before us.

No different from the Ethiopians,

To hid ourselves from our doomed existence

To warn our future daughters of their fate.

No different from the Ancient Chinese

To merely put on a grand show and humor those around us.

 

My tribal paint is not a unique creation.

But I am unable to look like our template,

Plastered on every product, poster, television screen, and magazine.

Unable to camouflage to the vividly colored rain forest

Of masked individuals.

But such practice is necessary to attract a mate

And increase my chance of survival and success.

I am unable to stay hidden in the shadow overcast by the mask

Persistently handed to me by my forefathers

In order to have an appearance of our beloved heroines

Like the great Marilyn Monroe.

I am unable to become a warrior and win the war

Against these foolish traditions.

As I foolishly awake from this dream

And step into the rays of the next sun,

All I can do is merely uncap my lipstick

And accept my fate as a tribal princess.