I sat among the plastic chairs,
the buzzing lights, the teacher's glares.
She spoke of tales and kingdoms bright,
where Cinderella cloaked in white.
A hand shot up, my voice arose,
her face contorted in polite froze.
“But who's to say her golden hair,
wasn’t instead a dusky flare?”
The teacher laughed
a brittle sound,
her logic circling, tightly wound.
“The story’s set, it’s long been told,
her skin was fair, her crown was gold.”
Yet I, unbowed, began my case,
my words unhurried, holding space.
“Her kindness, courage burned her flame,
not pallid shades or claimed surname.”
I smiled and added, firm, serene,
“A crown fits more than just one queen.
For beauty blooms in shades and hues,
beyond the limits some might choose.”
My classmates stared; the class fell still,
my heart, alive, defied their quill.
Let others shrink to stories small;
I’ll write the crown that fits us all.