There is a power young girls have. I remember realizing that I could direct the thoughts of a group of boys just by walking by. The year before I would have been invisible, of no importance. Now that had all changed.
No, that’s not it.
There is a fear that young girls have. I recall walking across the street with my girlfriends and laughing at the old man eyeing us from his car.
“He should go home to his wife and kids,” Tamera said.
We all laughed but I felt afraid at the invasion of this man’s eyes. He didn’t know me. Who was he? Why was he looking at me?
No, that’s not it.
There is a pride young girls have. They lift their faces and let their hair blow and revel in the delight of their new bodies. I remember standing by the side of the community pool and feeling the satisfaction of no longer being a “chubby girl.” I recall the smell of the iodine and baby oil we mixed for tanning and the amber beads water made on my legs as I came out of the pool. I just felt good. I felt the blood rushing, carrying me to an unknown place.
No, that’s not it.
There is a sadness young girls have. I remember having to give up wearing comfortable clothes. Suddenly I had to wear a garter belt and nylons – “make sure your seams are straight” – and a bra. I can still feel myself hanging from the monkey bars on my swing set, hanging upside down by my knees and my shirt falling over my eyes. I reached up and pulled down, or rather up, so my bra wouldn’t show. I fell, losing my grip.
No that’s not it. It’s all not it. I know that once I didn’t have the responsibility of being a woman, of always having to be aware of the effect of my sex, my body, my behavior, my safety, my choices. I recall a time when if something happened to me, or someone threatened me, I could expect to be protected. I didn’t have to consider if I had somehow caused it.
Mostly I want, for just this moment, to acknowledge the power of female coming of age. I want to give voice to the conflicts and the losses that accompany the power of being a woman. I want to acknowledge that as far as feminism has taken us, the distance we have to go stretches to the horizon.
©Angela Magara 2009
1 comment:
Yes.
All of that is both "it" and "not it." Just discovering that it doesn't end, either; instead of having to 'be responsible' for my sexiness now that I'm over 60, suddenly I have to 'be responsible' for other people thinking I'm a little old lady who needs protection.
(sigh).
Thanks for writing about this.
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