When I Knew…

As I was growing up, my family members would always tell me not to walk with my legs so far apart, to not whistle, to not laugh so abrasively, to not hunch myself over, to wear a bit of lipstick before I left the house, to stop calling people “dude”…

The list goes on. To all of this, I would ask “why”?

They would tell me, it’s not “ladylike” or “feminine.” You shouldn’t be acting this way. It’s very masculine.

So, I had to be “feminine”? But, again, “why”?

To which they would stress, “It’s because you were born a girl, not a boy. That’s the way you are supposed to act.”

Seriously, “why”?

“Boys aren’t going to like girls that are masculine. You want to get married one day right?”

“Well, yes. I want someone to share my life with.”

“Then you have to be feminine. That’s the way to do it.”

I took this to heart. So, I tried my best to be more “feminine”. When I walked, I’d try to always put one foot in front of the other (you know, to keep my legs closer together), I stopped whistling, I tried to stop calling people “dude”…

But, my family could see right through it. They continued to tell me to walk “straighter”, to take better care of my appearance, etc.

I was never good enough. I wasn’t “feminine” enough for my family and, given the context, this translated to me believing that I wasn’t “feminine” enough to be desirable to males. I was never going to get married.

Well, what the hell.

But then, when I was 19, something interesting happened.

I was working as a teacher at an educational summer camp, and I had this co-worker. She was also a teacher, and we would see each other in the hallways when the students would go on their breaks. I started talking to her more and more, and, honestly, she was super cool. She loved her family so much, was fiercely compassionate, and was so open and welcoming.

So, I tried to talk to her as much as I could. I figured I could use a friend at this place. All I did was spend hours in a classroom with 10-year-olds all day.

I popped into her room whenever I had some time. Whenever I walked in, she would always look up at me from her desk, and her bun would bob up and down just a little bit. (She had her hair in a bun a lot.) She would smile, but it wasn’t really a smile. It was more of a smirk, almost as if she was hiding something from me. I’d ask her more about herself, about her day, about her family, really anything. But, because of that smile, I always felt there was something more to know. She wasn’t telling me everything.

It got to the point where I would find any excuse to pop into her room. I remember, once, I walked in to ask if she had a spare dry erase marker because mine had all dried out.

They hadn’t. All of them were perfectly functional. I just wanted to talk to her.

Then, it got to the point that, whenever I’d walk over to her room, my heart would start beating faster. And then, when I walked out of her room, I’d be thinking about all the things I said to her. Was I being funny? Was I being witty? Oh, no, what if she took what I said the wrong way?

And then, one day, she showed up to work with her hair down, and all I could remember was how shiny and beautiful it was. She looked like a mermaid. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.

That’s when I knew. I didn’t just want to be her friend. I liked her. Like, liked liked her.

So I had a crush on a female? But, I was supposed to be feminine so I could attract males? Wait, oh jeez.

All of those traditional ideals I grew up believing just went out the window. Nothing made too much sense anymore. What was I supposed to do now?

I didn’t really know. But, I did know that this experience broke the pressure for me to be the “feminine” person I wasn’t. I didn’t fit that heteronormative mold my family had tried to fit me into all of my life. So why should I follow what they told me?

I felt liberated, and, for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel ashamed for the way I acted. I didn’t feel ashamed for walking with my legs far apart or whistling or laughing to my heart content. In fact, I now embrace it.

It’s who I am, after all.

Forever telling you personal anecdotes,

Alli D.