We Were Girls, but Now We’re Women

And no bras, periods, or injustice will keep us down.

Growing up, I sometimes wished I could just be a boy. I was surrounded by them, and it seemed, well, easier. Let’s be honest — how many of us have ever wished we could have the convenience of being able to pee standing up?

From a very young age, it became clear to me that being born into this world a girl came with some difficult standards. Benefits too, sure, but still the scale seemed tipped from the start.

Thankfully I did have my mother by my side, who defended me with her whole heart; but she, too, was brought up in a different time. She was held — and held herself — to certain standards. I didn’t always feel like she fully understood.

I was the only girl out of eight grandchildren (two brothers and five boy cousins), and I kept up with all of them for many years. But, at a certain point, people started treating me differently.

They started weighing in that it wasn’t right; that I should be more “ladylike.” That I shouldn’t get my clothes dirty, and that I should wear nicer things, brush my hair, cover-up. That I shouldn’t climb so high in trees because you might see up my shorts. That I should be more careful among strangers than the boys because it was more dangerous for us (a valid fear, but that didn’t make it feel any less unfair).

Then my boobs arrived.

And I was so, so angry the first time my parents told me I had to start wearing a bra. Neither of my brothers had to wear one, and I had absolutely no trouble running alongside them without one. I didn’t see what the problem was.

True, my chest was no longer entirely flat.

I didn’t give a damn about nipples occasionally showing through my shirt but, evidently, other people did.

My mother told me when that starts happening, it’s time to wear a bra.

“Why?” I demanded in defiance.

“Because it’s inappropriate.”

To an eleven-year-old girl, that was not a valid answer. Who had deemed it inappropriate? And why were the rules up to them? It just made me that much more certain that the world was unfair. And that it completely sucked to be a girl.

I ran to my room in furious tears while my brothers continued to play outside. Angrily, I smothered my face in my pillow and screamed at the injustice of it all. It may have been a tad melodramatic, but I stood fast in my belief that girls shouldn’t be forced to wear extra clothes if they didn’t want to.

For a while, I continued to rebel by “forgetting” to wear a bra, but whenever they noticed (which was often), one or both of my parents pretty much always sent me right back upstairs to get one.

And from then on, I was told to cover up so people wouldn’t stare.

Then at thirteen, I got my period for the first time. I’ll never forget it. We were visiting my (very traditional) grandparents at the time, and I was well aware that it wasn’t “proper” to talk about such things.

My mother didn’t grow up using tampons, so I was left with pads (the thick ones, with wings that stuck to your underwear). Oh, joy. It was painful, emotional, and mortifying. I’d been told about periods before, but never truly paid attention because it hadn’t happened to me yet. I sobbed to my mother and asked her when it would end.

She told me (in the kindest way possible) that this was going to happen to me every month for the next forty-ish years.

I stared at her, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, completely and utterly appalled. This was going to happen to me for basically the rest of my life?

And then I locked myself in the guest room and once again cried and screamed my frustration into the pillow.

To be honest, I still to this day feel like that was a pretty fair reaction.

Oh to be a boy, and never have to feel that horrid monthly ache between your legs, and all the lovely side effects that come with it. But no, we are women, blessed with menstrual cycles.

Men will unfortunately never understand our pain. And yet, they are still insisting on making decisions about what’s best for us down there.

But I digress.

When I was twenty-one, I went to visit my grandfather with the rest of my cousins. It was Florida, so it was hot, and the group of us were going out to lunch. I came down the stairs in navy blue shorts and a nice shirt.

My grandfather didn’t even greet me, but instead very obviously focused on my legs, frowning. He turned to my mother, who was in a dress, and said pointedly, “I’m concerned about the shorts.”

Everyone then looked at my legs. All my boy cousins, my brothers, my father, and uncle — all wearing shorts. Because it was hot. My aunt was in flowing pants with a flowery pattern. Not a dress, but apparently close enough. But my shorts were just too revealing, because I was supposed to be a lady.

Thankfully, my dad came to my defense and said abruptly, “Looks fine, let’s get in the car.”

The rest followed him, giving me pitying glances, and I trailed along behind with a cherry-red face while my grandpa protested. There was no way I was going to change, but that hadn’t stopped every single person in the group from taking a good long look at my bare legs.

I know my grandfather is stuck in his old-fashioned generation, and we’ve had a strained relationship all my life (although there is love there). I know not everyone is like that, and not every grandpa expects his granddaughter to refrain from ever showing skin.

However, “that’s not appropriate” rang loud and clear many, many times growing up — not just from him, but others too — in response to something I did or said or wore or felt.

As a teenager, I forgot to shave my armpits for a while one time, and my family noticed some hair when I wore a tank top. Inappropriate.

Leggings were a no-no all the way through high school and the first year of college because they were too revealing.

Piercings? No, don’t degrade your body.

Dyed hair? No need to change anything from your natural color, and no need to stand out.

Tattoos? Might as well just go to prison.

Eventually, when I was old enough to be considered an adult, I stopped caring about what was or was not appropriate. I declared that I would be the judge of my own life from now on.

But my brothers (whom I love very much) got away with everything. Wore whatever they wanted. Ate however much they wanted; no fear of being seen as fat for them! Laughed as loud or ran as fast or climbed as high as they wanted. No bras, periods, pointed remarks or covering up for them.

What freedom.

I realize there are many difficult expectations for boys as well. But growing up being told what’s appropriate and what’s not simply because I have legs and breasts and a vagina, takes its toll. It builds up a lot of anger, and at least in my case a lot of passion to put a stop to it and tell the world that frankly, being a girl is goddamn hard sometimes.

I don’t want to be a boy anymore just to escape the reality of my life. But I don’t want to have to be the perfect woman either; I just want to be a woman. And the world often makes that seem impossible, though it doesn’t have to be.

I think sometimes we forget how hard it is for each other.

We forget that sometimes, a little compassion can go a long way, and that sharing our strength is even better than just having it for ourselves.

So women, be gentle with girls growing up because life throws a lot at us and it can be tough to face our own reality. Especially when we’re young. We were all there once, getting our first period, or being told we’re acting inappropriately for reasons we may not even understand.

I’ve learned to appreciate the things that make me feminine and the things that make me strong. Sometimes — much of the time, really— they’re one and the same. I’ve grown from my experiences and use them to try to move forward, and my hope is that we can keep doing that for one another, too.

We brave bras, periods, double standards, and injustice all our lives. And now we get to decide what’s appropriate or not.

We were girls; now we’re women. And women are strong as hell. Let’s not forget it.

© Samantha Blake 2020

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