Echoes & Flashbacks

Okay, so yesterday, I’m walking around JC Penney. I pass 3 little kids together. I hear a littler one say to a bigger one, “Is that a boy or a girl?” Jesus. Talk about spinning me right back to my childhood. One second I was having a nice shopping day. The next I was reliving my worst pre-pubescent insecurities.

For background, I was wearing a t-shirt, jeans and Chuck Taylors. Pretty gender neutral. But my hair mid-length hair was down. And I was carrying a purse. Now, the hair, I’m going to call out teenage boys, because young guys have been wearing their hair pretty girly in my opinion (I submit Justin Bieber into evidence). But a purse? Come on. A purse? What do I gotta do here?

Not the kids’ fault, but “hello, shame spiral”. I spent a lot of my tween years fairly gender ambiguous looking. Tall, skinny, short hair, tomboy. I got a lot of “is that a boy or a girl?” And not just kids. A hairdresser, had the clippers out and buzzing before I was able to clarify the issue. Whoa, whoa, whoa! Pixie! Not buzz cut! Boobs would have helped, but what little I do have wouldn’t show up for another 7 or 8 years. Makeup might have helped, but even if my Mom had let me wear it, I suspect it would have confused the issue more – I’d have probably looked like a junior transvestite.

And it was the late 70s, so there were plenty of unisex clothing options. In fact the 70s and 80s were kinda gender bendy decades (David Bowie, Annie Lennox, boys grew their hair long, women wore power suits, people actually used the word “unisex”). But those were outliers. Most people wanted boys to look like boys and girls to look like girls (and still do), especially in the very conservative areas I lived in. And they could be pretty cruel to someone who wasn’t classifiable at a glance. Would I have been a girly-girl if I’d actually been curvy, fluffy and pretty? Maybe. Nature really didn’t give me that sugar and spice option. I kinda played the hand I was dealt. Unfortunately, some people really wanted me to stop being a square peg. And I wasn’t willing to jam myself into a round hole just to make them happy.

So, yeah. One simple question (simple!) from a little kid and, even at 41, I’m reliving my Vietnam. Tween PTSD. Little do we know those tiny, stupid battles we fight at 11 can come back and haunt us.