Molded Model

God dosen't make women like her anymore.
He can't.
He can't afford the impact they make on the world.
She was one in six billion- Blanche B. Evans.
With a name like that how one couldn't shatter others is beyond me.
"Head up."
"One foot in front of the other. Do not cross your ankles!"
She was a modeling instructor not just for the catwalk but for the sidewalk.
"When asked your name, reply with confidence and zest."

I learned more about myself from Blanche than my mother could ever teach me.
More about manners and the proper place to turn up your nose.
More about the shallow world we live in than she would ever know.
And more about the person I did not want to become,
the person who only wears the trends and wont meet the day until her face is made
than the both of them would ever know.

She made ninety look forty-seven.
Fiery red hair that matched her lip stick,
Tailored dress suits that belonged in New York City,
She made me loathe the day I would strut my "stuff."

As much as my blue eyes "that would make me famous" followed her step
And as much as my feet would respond to her every critique
There was something about Blanche
That made,

That made me
The modeling hating,
No-make-up-wearing,
Free soul that I am today.
And for that
I thank God,
For the one in only
Blanche B. Evans.

***
There was a time in my life when a model was all I ever thought I wanted to be. And Blanche was the woman who taught me everything she knew, while my mother was the one who paid for it, while also believing in my dream.
And for a few years, form where this poem came, I resented myself for this. I resented myself for wanting to be something based solely on my looks. However, now Im blessed with the opportunity I had to strut my stuff, blessed that these two women believed in my potential, not just my body's potential, that might someday take me down the runway, but my personality, and my voice that needed to be heard. These women gave me the confidence that I can now openly see in myself.
And for that, I say Grace.