What a princess does

I recently accepted a job teaching young kids science at a summer camp. The camp focuses on getting the kids to want to learn, inspiring them to be excited about learning and to inquire about the world around them. On my first day, we took the kids to the park so they could examine different leaves and make observations, and they dove right into it. They were talking about wanting to be scientists when they grew up. They wanted to learn and discover, and the sheer wonder with which they plunged into it amazed me.

But one girl, though she enjoyed learning, wanted something else. "I want to be a princess," she said.

I didn't say anything. It was my first day there, and I was still feeling my way around. Like the kids, I was learning as I went. I looked to the senior teacher for a response.

"What does a princess do?" asked the senior teacher.

"Magic!" she said.

"What kind of magic?"

"Elsa!" With a bit of prodding, she clarified: she had just seen Frozen, thought Princess Elsa's ice magic was cool as heck, and wanted to find practical uses for it. Like building ice castles.

Though we were outside, my jaw hit the proverbial floor. American media teaches girls they should be princesses: elegant and beautiful and above all passive, static, a walking image, not a person. But here was a girl, only three years old, who saw it differently, who wanted to be a princess, not because of what a princess is, but because of what she does.

Though it wasn't perfect, I really loved Frozen, and I could spend hours talking about it. But I won't, not here, because in one word, that girl spoke more truth about it than I've seen in pages and pages of excited, academic, but adult discussion.

Frozen teaches girls that they can, and should, do things. That they can run, and build, and create, and change the world.

And that's cool as heck.