For a writing contest I wrote about what I know best: my body and my mind.
I won the contest, and now everyone knows about my first period. What joy.
Little boys and little girls go to different bathrooms. When I was a kid, I knew my bathroom was the stick figure with the triangular body. I never noticed the difference between me and little boys, unless our parents wanted us to look nice. For me, stockings were tugged onto my limp legs, and for boys, sweaters were shoved over their heads. I don’t remember the first time I heard the word feminism, but from an early age I associated it with burning your bra, not looking pretty, and not believing in happily ever after. I thought feminism was an over-reaction until I became a woman myself.
I grew up a princess. I was my daddy’s little girl, and I thought my mother was the prettiest woman alive. Often I would send a little prayer thanking God for making me a girl. And why? I could walk in gym class, my brother could never hit me no matter what I said, and in every Disney movie prince charming pursues the girl, not the other way around. I was living a charmed life.
Everything started to make sense when I hit puberty. It began with my first bra. In the dressing room, my mother stood back and told me, “What a pretty young lady you have become!” I felt like an alien. The next day in class, while learning long division, a boy leaned over and snapped my bra strap. He yelled, “Guess who has a bra!” Already, I was willing to torch them.
The next year, I got my first period. I thought I was dying, and when I learned that it happens to every woman every month, I still thought I was going to die. The princess of my fairytales was no longer so pretty when she a dirty little secret to clean up after. Since when are there tampons in Wonderland?
From puberty, I have also learned that natural beauty is a work in progress. While the boys smelled like sweat after recess and mixed their cafeteria food into nauseating concoctions, girls had to learn how to be pretty. No longer was I thanking God for making me a girl, but instead wondering why God didn’t make us hairless except for our precious heads. I, along with every 6th grade girl, was shocked to realize that every 8th grade girl shaved their legs and armpits, plucked their eyebrows, and straightened their hair. Every woman can remember their first shaving experience. It’s catastrophic. A young girl handling a razor to achieve beauty has hazardous results. I remember a girl that shaved her eyebrows off. The same goes for makeup. A girl equipped with eyeliner, powders, and lipstick for the first time can make a sweet-looking girl into a painted lady of the night. On the first day of 7th grade I was determined to be one of those “pretty” girls, especially after my summer crush called me a bookworm. That morning I slathered onto my face whatever I could find in my mother’s bathroom. When I stepped onto the bus the first boy to glance at me shrieked in horror and exclaimed, “My God, what happened to your face?”
Apart from my rookie mistakes, I came out a better looking person with more self-confidence. While the boy’s voices cracked and awkward dark hairs hung over their lips, I was proud of being a girl again. Yet, it seemed, a girl’s evolution ended at puberty, while chimps grew into men. Escaping puberty with only a bruised ego did not make me a feminist. I’m not in the streets burning my bra nor do I announce makeup is the poison of pop culture. After the emotional and physical overall of puberty, the girls are expected to wait for the boys. The girls with patience laugh at their inane jokes and act like the “ditz” they are called. The impatient girls are the feminists, the ones unable to let a poor joke go without criticism and the ones who can’t act dumb.
There is an integral shift in females, after the first bra and new curves, which has gone unnoticed. Females either fall back or plough forward. The girls that fall back let their pretty, shaved legs be a product for the boys, while the girls that plough forward let their pretty, shaved legs be a source of self-empowerment. I began to notice the integral shift at the beginning of high school. The boys, or young men, were still scrawny and rude. For them, flirting with a girl meant calling her dumb. I had a choice: I could play the part of dumb and simple and hopefully get a boyfriend, or I could have an opinion and pursue what I loved. After being an ugly duckling with a passion for words, the choice was made for me. I was to be a feminist.
I have not burned my bra, I try to look pretty, and I still believe in happily ever after. As a little girl I did not know being a princess meant being a feminist. After a childhood, I learned the boys and girls bathroom is just the beginning of differences.
After four years of high school, some guys still call us dumb while other guys enjoy a conversation. As school policy, girls cannot have two male dates to prom yet two girls can accompany a male to the dance. The females at the top are perceived as ruthless over achievers, while the males are perceived as naturally talented. There is still injustice, but at least I can send a prayer to God saying, I love who I am---a girl.
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