Flower Hat
When I was little, we lived close to Independence Park in Black River, Jamaica. It was a popular venue for sporting events and other celebrations. There was a short cut into the park from my house. We rarely used the main entrance and when necessary, would sneak under the barbed wire fence to enter.
One of the annual events was the Flower Show at Independence Park. This was a big deal in our community. There are many exhibits of beautiful flowers and plants, live entertainment, and good food. A main event was the hat competition. Beautiful flower hats were artfully designed and meticulously crafted by inspired visionaries (creative women in the community). Little girls were selectively chosen by the designers to be the hat model. Important community members were appointed as judges. There were prizes involved and bragging rights at stake. It was a big deal.
One year, my mom thought it was a good idea to sign me up to be one of the hat models. I was around seven years old, and when she told me I thought it was cool and didn’t give it much thought. The day of the event arrived. The air was full of excitement at Independence Park. I spent the morning running around with my friends, enjoying the festivities. I forgot about the hat competition all together. Eventually mom found me. The day was winding down and it was time. I had to put on the flower hat, get up on a stage, and parade in front of everyone in the park, showing off the hat. Somehow that part of the deal had not registered in my brain. I looked around and saw the crowd swelling. The other little girls were being fitted into their hats. The stage was set. The judges were in place. Reality set in. Suddenly, I was gripped with panic. The joy of the day was replaced with sheer terror. I couldn’t do it. My mom was saying reassuring words and the designer was starting to look a bit panicked herself. I stood frozen. I couldn’t move. I was filled with dread and paralyzed with fear. There was no way anyone could convince me to get on that stage. I started to cry. It was ugly. My mom was embarrassed and confused. She thought this was something I wanted to do; I had agreed to it months ago. All the adults were swarming around trying to figure out what to do. And I stood there bawling my eyes out. I don’t remember what happened after that. I think they pulled another cute little girl from the crowd who was more poised and normal to model the hat. Maybe she won, I don’t know. All I know is the relief I felt when they gave up on me and I was no longer the object of dismay and disappointment. I did not have a shred of dignity left, but that was fine with me as long as I did not have to put that hat on and get on that stage.
I wish I could say I am now a fearless, confident woman who would have no trouble donning that flower hat and strutting across that stage as the crowd goes wild with applause. While I have gained some poise and confidence in that past 4 decades, I am still a work in progress.
