Dear Girl, Love Yourself
An open letter to the abused girls out there
Dear girl,
I saw you a few months ago on the train. Sorry, I didn’t try to reach before. I thought you were too young to understand my words or even care to read them someday. Until today. I saw another girl that reminded me of you.
She didn’t look as stoic as you did. Her face was wet with distress, swollen eyes fixed on the ground, trying not to meet his. I remember you looked different, but still just like her.
I saw a bashful smile creeping across your face as he started yelling at you, your cheeks shading like the carnation flower in your dress.
I wasn’t looking at you, but I saw you. The train had stopped at Sherbrooke station, a huge poster promoting the latest sequel to Power Rangers.
You got excited at the idea of a cinema date, because ‘that’s the kind of movies he likes,’ or at least that’s what you thought.
You could feel your heart drumming at the touch of his hand in Scotiabank Theater, French-kisses and tabooed play on the dark. (The textbook in your hand told me you needed a friend to buy you FCKD UP at the SAQ. His clean-shaven face led me to believe he might be that friend.)
‘Look!’ as you pointed at the interplanetary warriors, you grabbed his hand and fancied about surprising him on the weekend. You imagined how happy he’d be with the tickets, and how happy you’d be when receiving the compliment you’d been so long longing for — the one about overrated spontaneity.
(You know he’s getting tired of having to decide everything for you. He doesn’t know you are too scared to ask, since your proposals always seem to turn him off.)
Now it’s different: he likes movies about superheroes. You know that. This is your chance to show him you are still worthy to be with.
‘What?’ he kissed you on the head and looked to where you pointed. ‘What?’ He asked again, a deep line growing between his eyes.
‘You don’t like The Avengers?’
Sorry I smiled to myself when you mixed up the titles, but I can’t blame you: It’s just another sci-fi movie about flying, fighting creatures, right? (No offense, guys: I am a huge fan of Iron Man and other sci-fi characters myself.)
He let go of your hand and yelled, ‘What the fuck? What the fuck, man?’ [sic]. ‘Are you stupid?’
His words resonated in my ears louder than the Quebequer voice announcing the next stop. A familiar sense of impotence invaded my hands and throat.
I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to yell at you, the most. I felt the impulse to throw his curse words back to your face — back to my 16-or-30-year-old face because abusive language is also packaged in more ambiguous tones. But instead, ‘What the [... ] are you doing with this [...] guy?’
I didn’t say anything. Nobody did. I dried my angst on my skinny jeans and threw him a vexed look before descending on Jean Talon or Berry-UQAM. (I don’t remember what direction we were going.)
I could see your blurry figure vanishing into the crowd, as I stood on the orange platform. It was then when I noticed, for a split second, the dragon tattoo on your arm.
Maybe I made that up. Maybe I just wanted to see your inner strength and power sprouting on your flesh. But I didn’t fabricate his words, nor the indelible fake smile on your face. I still see it today.
As I walked home, I thought how lucky I was to have such a wonderful man by my side. That thought made me angrier: I shouldn’t feel lucky. Good guys shouldn’t be some naturally colored blue pearl. I have met amazing men in my life. Some less so, but isn’t the same about girls? Why should I generalize?
Was it seeing you being treated like trash what stirred up the embers of my mistrust?
Was it my recent cognizance of the high femicide rate in Mexico and the disappearance of First Nation women in the Highway of Tears? Or of a law decriminalizing the abuse that kills 12,000 women in Russia every year?
Was I still affected by those High School memories of one girl on the brink of death because of her boyfriend’s bullies, and another giving birth in a dorm and caching the tiny corpse because her abusive father would prefer a dead daughter to an underage “slut” in his house?
Was I paranoid? He was just yelling at you, and I was just making a tempest in a teapot. Right?
Wrong. This is the beginning of the end. The red flag you should always run away from.
Maybe it’ll never escalate. Maybe he’s just having a bad day. Maybe he’s just another boy who hasn’t learned how to treat girls. Maybe you can teach him how to.
Sorry to be the one to break the news to you: You can’t. You’re not ready yet.
I didn’t see you standing for yourself. I saw an ashamed, innocent girl grinning at a jerk.
I’d like you to know that, no matter what, you should never let anyone treat you like that.
Stop justifying his behavior. Stop crying inside and smiling at him and everybody else on a train in the orange line. Stop pretending it’s OK.
I’d like you to know that you have a beautiful smile and you shouldn’t waste it in nervous or feigned ones.
You deserve a person who makes your lips arch in cheer, your white pearls lightening up the world around you. Above all, you must know you don’t need anyone to make such magic happen.
I know it’s easier said than done. I’ve been there: hormones at their peak, happy-ever-after life, and climactic air castles crossing out the blamable discontent.
And now, in your case, perfect Instagram pictures boasting of your happiness to the world, because, ‘C’mon! Isn’t he hot? And guess who the lucky one is?’
Him, sweetie, he’s the lucky one. Please, try to see that. You’re beautiful. We all are.
If I were a teen, I’d take you on a date to Scotiabank. (You’d say ‘yes,’ because I’d be an irresistible dark-haired boy, or a shorty curly cutie if you prefer.)
We’d watch that film with that Dornan actor you have a crush on. By the way, I don’t recall rolling my eyes on end at any other movie in my entire life, but I’d be ecstatic to see your cheeks shading like the carnation in your dress.
We can make a compromise afterward. There’s a sequel to Avengers I’d love to watch. (Do you know I have a Baby Groot on my desk? I could show it to you.)
I’d kiss you softly in the dark and, after the screening, I’d buy you a rose — or a poutine, if you are not too much into romantic stuff. And, that night, as I watched memes in my bed and scrolled down on my Facebook feed, I’d think of your beautiful ocean eyes gleaming at my note, ‘Would you like to go out again? We can wait. Yes. Let’s wait. I want you to fall in love with somebody else, first: the girl with the dragon embossed in her inner-self.’
P.S. Dear girl, I hope you can read and understand my words someday — Love yourself before you give your heart to somebody else.
