Just Girly Things

I was 14 years old. My two best friends and I were walking across the street in a tiny beach town one Saturday afternoon in August. We were laughing, enjoying our time together, and forgetting that we had to go to school on Monday morning.

All of a sudden, our exchanging of inside jokes was interrupted by sounds from the pickup truck stopped at the red light next to us. They honked their horn, rolled down their windows, and whistled at us, continuing to shout obscene things that I didn’t understand the meaning of until a few years later.

Our minds hadn’t registered what had happened, but we knew that we were afraid. So we ran inside the small antique shop at the corner of the street and hid amongst the vintage furniture and porcelain dolls for around an hour.

Since this day, I have been told things like “Boys like girls who wear more makeup,” and even “You should become a prostitute when you’re older.” Once I heard these comments enough, I became almost numb. I felt nothing anymore.

How is it fair that 15-year-old girls have dealt with so much harrassment throughout their lives that it has become a part of their daily routine? When were we first taught that we are simply objects? In elementary school, any time a boy would push a girl on the playground or make fun of her in any way, it would be swept under the rug. The teachers would pick the girl up off of the ground, dry her tears, and tell her, “He is only being mean to you because he likes you.”

Allowing a young girl to believe that abusive behaviors are the same as love can lead to adult women being trapped in relationships with abusive partners, but because they have been taught that hatefulness only means they care, they have no desire to leave the relationship.

This can also create a rather terrifying idea in the minds of men: “If I am mean to someone, it will be taken as love.” If they have been told their entire lives that being malicious towards somebody equals loving and caring for that person, then they will not be able to grasp that what they are doing is not an aspect of love. This creates a toxic relationship with no way out.

I learned what objectification was at a young age. In middle school, boys got away with sexual assault constantly, and a lot of the time, girls were blamed for the actions of boys. In an interview with Alana Pelaez, she shared this story with me; “I was sexually harassed all throughout middle school and I finally gained the courage to tell my 8th grade counselor. I walked in and through tears told the story of what happened. She said to me, ‘Well were you wearing a low-cut top?’ Those words play through my head every time I wear anything slightly revealing. Because my counselor said that to me and assigned the blame to me, that boy who harassed me and ruined my life never got in trouble.”

How is it fair that boys get to walk away un harmed, while girls receive ridicule and blame? This is only teaching young girls that they mean nothing compared to men; they are simply objects that can be used whenever they please. We are supposed to be preparing for the “real world,” while we are in high school, or at least that’s what all of my teachers say. However, all I am learning is that I am afraid.

I have had boys call me a “whore,” a “slut,” and I have been ridiculed for saying “no.” Each and every time I ask an adult for help, I receive the same answer: “Boys will be boys.” If “boys will be boys,” is an excuse for their behavior, then they can get away with absolutely everything.

When harassed on school property, it is extremely difficult to ask for help. Girls are worried that school officials will do nothing but repeat, “Boys will be boys,” over and over until we begin to believe that it is a valid excuse. Boys will get away with this behavior while those who have been assaulted have to live with that experience forever. There is no way to forget how we felt in that moment. The boys who harrassed us live on, forgetting that they even did anything wrong. I am a person; not a belonging. I want to be treated like a human being, living and breathing on this planet, creating new things and changing the world. No girl is simply a “thing.” We are people, and it is time we start fighting against harassment and sexual assault. It is time for schools to start helping us in that fight. It is time to end objectification, once and for all.

By Quynn Lubs

I forgot what age I was when I learned that I matter less than the boys in my class.

It might have been elementary school. Fifth grade to be exact. All the girls were rounded up and shuffled into a neatly decorated classroom. A shimmering lady welcomed us into the space. She oozed a scent of thick strawberry jam and had teeth that were too white: the kind you only see in Crest commercials where the actress drinks red wine and it somehow leaves no hint of its presence on her lips. Today we’re learning about the female body. When she says this, we all make the same face. We scrunch up our noses, let our lips curl to one side and release a faint groan. I don’t know who taught us this. Maybe it was learned from the boys who cringe at anything womanly. Their mother’s worn torso, how they beg her not to wear tank tops. She always listens. After all, they are their father’s sons. Maybe we were just born like this. We started young, realized we were not supposed to love our bodies early. We were always good listeners.

The boys got the afternoon off. They received an extra long recess and popsicles. So when we emerged from our informational session even more confused than before, the boys, with sweet grape summertime surrounding their mouths, hollered in our directions.

Too bad you’re girls! Only boys get to have this much fun.

In elementary school, we played handball. While the boys took turns scraping their calloused knuckles against the concrete, the girls waited in line. We gossiped and giggled, marveled at the small men in front of us, already. The yard duty asked us if we had boyfriends yet. The same question spills from the lips of the waiter at Johnny Rockets. The coach of my soccer team. The aunt who I’ve never met.

I nodded and pointed to the blonde one.

I’m his. I smiled. Or maybe it was middle school. I remember

being so excited to be a real teenager. To go to three different classes in one day. To have a real cafeteria where they served good cookies. Not like the ones at elementary school. The good kind.

In middle school, I was allowed to go out on Friday evenings to the ice rink, where each night two new people would hold hands. On Saturday morning, everyone would be talking about who they were, how far it went, if they were dating already. Or if they left each other at that cold, Cupid nightclub at 10 o’clock when their moms arrived in their minivans, oblivious to the flirty smiles.

In middle school, I wasn’t allowed to show my shoulders. They said the boys would get too distracted. Stare too long. They might miss something valuable.The girl who sat next to me in English got called to the office. She came back with a new stare, the kind that says sorry for itself, and a P.E. shirt. She missed 20 minutes of class. In that 20 minutes, we finished the notes. We were on to the classwork now and the teacher stared at his computer, unfazed by her re-entrance.

The boys all got it. The lesson, I mean. Or the privilege of not have to apologize for their bodies. Either way, they always passed the tests.

It could have been in high school. The fantasy of Friday nights and all of their green turf glory. The kind grown men still talk about, even after years of working behind a stiff desk in a stiff cubicle at a stiff office where they do accounting or something just as glorious. How I wanted so badly to wear somebody’s jersey. Not because they won or anything, but because that meant you were special enough for somebody to brand you their own. To give you a number and make you pretty again.

The girl’s tennis team won another championship. That makes three straight years. They get a pat on the back.

The girl’s golf team won another championship. That makes four straight years. They got a small poster by the lunch tables.

The boy’s football team successfully threw an incomplete pass. That makes five this game. They get a banner at the front of school. They get new jerseys and a plaque with their name on it. They get respect.

There are some things you learn just by watching, listening to the world around you. Nobody sits you down on the foot of a pinktrimmed bed, warns you that you are worth a little less. A shiny silver dollar, scuffed and worn with use. You learn to let yourself be currency.

By Sophia Kriegel