The lowercase still felt a bit revolutionary; the content more so, they go with girls that buck and bite. We thought we were, the girls that would buck and bite. Not prudes or prims or pearlclutchers, but tough girls, brave girls. The kind of girl that could handle herself. The kind of girl who could hang with men. You aren’t like the other girls. We took it as a compliment. A badge of honor.
We scoffed at the dainty and banished the delicate. We slipped into leather jackets and believed they gave us thicker skins. We exchanged anger for sadness. We mimicked the way they talked, the way they swaggered, the way they spoke over each other, the way they sulked, the way they bragged and tried to shock. We argued. We stirred the shit. We traded licks We didn’t apologize for offending, because offending was the point. What are you? Some kind of pussy? We tried to write like we weren’t women. Present tense. First person. Block letters. All verbs and pointy adjectives. Lots of synonyms for brutal. Lots of opinion. Don’t like it? You’re stupid. Not my problem.
We valued honesty. No matter how it was delivered. We valued loyalty above all things. You don’t pull your punches, but you don’t rat someone out. Even if they do something wrong. Everyone makes mistakes. Sometimes people misinterpret. Sometimes people overreact. You sure you remember it right? You sure you weren’t too drunk? We weren’t sure. And so we brushed off the slurs. We tolerated the rape jokes. We maybe told a few ourselves. The other girls were oversensitive. They were bitches. They were sluts. Not you, you’re not like other girls. They respected us. They valued our opinions. They would always have our back. They would probably always have our back. They didn’t entirely disrespect us. So long as we didn’t talk shit. So long as we didn’t get too uptight. So long as we didn’t make demands. So long as we didn’t accuse. You’re so chill I forget you’re a girl. You’re so chill I can feel okay taking a shit in your house. They would definitely take a shit in our house.
The first time a thing happened, we didn’t say anything but she didn’t exactly keep quiet. They said whatever. Dude, that’s really fucked up. But they couldn’t really imagine it happening, because it probably wouldn’t happen to them and seriously, that guy? And when she left the room, they’d say she asked for it, she made it up, she was just looking for attention. Because they knew the guy, and like, no way would that guy, that guy’s awesome, that guy’s my hero. They figured we agreed. We wouldn’t believe some bullshit just because a girl, a girl like that, was having her period or whatever. We agreed. We forgot she was one of us. Loyalty is the most important thing. You have to earn loyalty, we guessed. She shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not like he raped her.
We weren’t the girls they dated, but sometimes they’d sleep with us. We didn’t say no if it happened because maybe we wanted it, or wanted to be among them enough that we wouldn’t risk it by making them feel embarrassed. Wanting it made you desperate. Not wanting it made you a tease. C’mon, don’t be a drag. It was usually a mistake even if they were pretty cute or good kissers or sweet when no one else was looking. They never meant for it to happen. It was on us if it got complicated. Just like a girl, they’d say. Freaking out and getting all weird. We knew what they meant. She wasn’t one of us. We were different. We were rational. We were not like other girls.
You never knew when you’d finally have enough. Maybe a particular joke. Maybe that one awful story. Maybe the first time you hear them say things they always say but this time about your sister, your mentor, your best friend. Maybe it will be the last time they jokingly grab your tit and call you toots, but like, ironically, while you go fetch them another round of beer, and you realize you’ve been fetching beer for how long now? for a bunch of nearly-grown men who think it’s hilarious to grope you and maybe what makes you not like the other girls is that they respect you even less. But probably, probably, it is the moment when they slag off another girl– as being hysterical, weak, an attention whore– and you realize the words they use to discredit her are your own. It will have been something you said offhand that one time trying to be cool, and the girl they turn it around on will be someone just like you or maybe, just maybe, someone that is you.
the boys I mean are not refined, even when may go to school in coats and ties and know how to turn the right phase to open the right door and assume the refined success to which they were entitled . Some of us still hang with them, still making excuses, still staying silent, as we clatter down corridors of power in uncomfortable shoes helping them ruin other women because we we are not like other girls. Because we still think those boys respect us. Because they would never do that to us. Not unless we deserved it. Because they believe in loyalty and they will be loyal and they will always trust us and believe in us and have our backs because of how much they respect us and how very, very much we mean to them.
Nothing at all?
Tips, drinks, donations toward acquisition of Italian villa (you can totally come stay):
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