How I was in the beginning

I remember growing up in two ways, so separate you'd think they were memories of two different children.  On the one hand, I remember playing on my elementary school playground.  Monkey bars, swing set, kickball. I wasn't an athletic or even a coordinated child, but recess came and, like all good first through sixth graders, I played.  I had alliances and enemies, people I wanted to play with and those I didn't.  Those memories are normal, tinted a little green from age and wear, but no different from anyone else's memories of grade school.

The second set is boy-girl specific as in girls vs. boys.  Specifically this girl vs. the boys.  Pictures of me from age 0-11 are adorable.  I am blonde, wide-eyed, average height and weight.  I have straight white teeth (no braces ever and still--to this day--I have never had a cavity).  Somewhere around age twelve I got my period, developed breasts, and was so different from other girls that I became my own entity against the boys. This lasted a long time. 

There were girls who weighed more than I did, but no one was as insecure about it as I was.  The women in my family, who I love dearly, dieted constantly, so I knew any extra weight was bad, but here I was, developing dimpled ass cheeks and curved hips and a chest that would be 36C by the time I was 15.  I was curvy and insecure--insecurvy--and had no idea what to do with a body like mine.  But, apparently, the boys knew what to do with it.

In ninth grade, at a new school (we moved in the middle of my eighth grade year), a friend took me to a junior high basketball game to flirt with a boy she liked.  At that game, an eighth grade boy told me I looked like I could perform a certain sex act very well because of the shape of my mouth.  I was fourteen.  

At that point, I'd been kissed by three boys.  One while playing spin the bottle--my first kiss ever--and two 'boyfriends' if you call hanging out at someone's house and kissing for a few weeks dating.  I had no frame of reference for such blatant sex talk, but it didn't end there.  Throughout high school, more boys said things to me like that.  I was the girl they said shitty, slutty things to, even though I was one of the last girls in my graduating class to do any of those things.  There were 42 people in my graduating class, around 200 in my high school, and everyone knew everyone else's business.  My prudishness had as much to do with self-preservation as it did with anything else.

I knew I could have had sex in high school.  Every girl I knew could have.  But I wanted to hold out for love.  And I had discovered the magic of making out.  In her memoir, Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress, Susan Perkins-Gilman writes: "Making out, I'd quickly discovered, was the greatest activity ever invented in the history of the planet. As soon as I started making out with boys on a regular basis, I couldn't believe that vast segments of the human population ever did anything else. How, I wondered could people possibly pick up their dry cleaning, perform open-heart surgery, or teach high school mathematics when they could be making out instead? What was wrong with this world? Where were people's priorities?" 

I loved kissing, so when a boy at a party approached me, I let him kiss me because. I. Liked. It.  Good girls didn't go all the way, I knew that, but you could make out and maybe it would lead to a real relationship.  He'd see me Monday at school, remember our sweet hot kisses, and make me his girlfriend, give me his letter jacket to wear, his class ring, the whole nine. (I went to a 3A high school in Central Kansas from 1990-94 that was, admittedly, a little too 50s for it's own good.)

But, of course, that never happened.  I learned, as far as boys were concerned, I was fun backstage--in the dark where no one could see--but I was never the star of the show.

I look at the girls I teach, beautiful in each of their sizes, shapes, weights, and heights, and I pray none of them are being spoken to like I was--like I still am, sometimes.  I pray we've moved past the point where men feel like crass commentary is acceptable in terms of flirting.  I pray boys have gotten better with girls, and girls have learned how to say NO when they dislike something.  

But, of course, I know better.

I spent years trying to find love, trying to reconcile the playground images of boys and girls getting along, laughing, having fun and being partners with the other images of derision, sexualization and lusty groping that came later.  And it took me far too many trips around the block to realize you have to love who you are right now, no matter what anyone else says or who you hope to be in the future, you have to love who you are right now so you can defend her, nurture her, give her the room to say yes when it feels good and no when it feels bad.  And you have to keep doing it, over and over and over again, until it's as natural as breathing.

I let other people decide for me for so long that now I find myself loved by a good man who accepts me exactly as I am and it scares the shit out of me.  He loves me enough to hear every critical, irrational, and insecurvy thing I have to say without repercussions, without throwing it back at me, without making me feel bad for having emotions.  He loves me. And I have to let him.  I have to stop seeing myself as the girl boys used and let myself be the woman he loves.  

I have to get back to the swing set, the monkey bars, the effortless freedom of how I was in the beginning.

from 'Parthenogenesis'-Pablo Neruda

Well, I'll try to change for the better:

greet them all circumspectly,

watch out for appearances,

be dedicated, enthusiastic--

til I'm just what they ordered,

being an un-being at will

til I'm totally otherwise.

Then if they let me alone, 

I'll change my whle person,

disagree with my skin,

get a new mouth,

change my shoes and my eyes--

then when I'm different

and nobody can recognize me

--since anything else is unthinkable--

I'll go on as I was in the beginning.