This month we’re doing things a little differently. For Women’s History Month, Dear MK is taking on all things women’s rights. Up until now, you have gotten to know me as a friend, a confidant, and a fellow survivor, but this month I’d like you to get to know me as a woman… and we’re starting at the beginning.
I loved being a girl. I loved my Barbies and Polly Pockets, loved pretending to be a mermaid in the pool, loved dressing up like a princess, and getting my tiny fingernails painted at the kitchen table. I loved when a boy had a crush on me. But, I got a little older and realized I didn't love the ways they were talking about me: didn’t love that they were talking about how my body was changing, how they were pointing out insecurities I didn’t even have yet, how they were using me to talk about all the ‘grown up’ things that they knew nothing about.
I was fourteen when I had my first kiss. He was my first high school boyfriend and the first one that didn’t feel like a silly little school crush. I was nervous. The kiss was awful: too much, too long, too forceful, too aggressive. I eventually pulled away and put my head down on his chest; I didn’t want him to see the tears welling in my eyes. The next time we kissed I was prepared. It was the time after that when he started to feel my chest; I used my arm to nudge him away. The week after that, the same thing. We had been together maybe a month or two when he broke up with me. I was obviously devastated… but got over it. It was a few months after that, I found out we were connected by a chain of mutual friends; through that chain of friends, I heard why he actually broke up with me. He wasn’t getting anything out of me, I wasn’t getting him off, so what was the point. I was crushed. All my young excitement about falling in love was ruined.
My next relationship was the year later. I liked him a little more, felt a little more comfortable, and explained that I wanted to take things slow. I tried to explain what had happened to me the last time. He was sixteen and eager, but never pushed me. I was surprised and once again devastated when he broke up with me. About a month later, one of our mutual friends told me he had broken up with me because it was moving too slow. Twice in a row. Absolutely crushed again. It was perfectly clear what boys wanted from me.
That summer I started lifeguarding at my local pool. Boys in middle and high school liked to make comments, but the older men did too. I loved my job but learned the hard way that for the men there it could never be just my job; I was always going to be the lifeguard in her bathing suit.
By sixteen I was well aware of what the world thought of me. At nineteen I was placing a lot of blame on the things that happened to me when I was young, thinking maybe if I hadn’t been made so afraid of sex and so desperate for someone to like me, maybe I wouldn’t have walked into an abusive relationship or gotten tricked by a manipulator. Now at almost twenty-one, I know better than to blame myself for what others have done, but I can’t help but be hurt knowing I wasn’t the only girl to live these experiences. It’s truly heartbreaking being young and having to learn for yourself the way society treats women. No one prepares you for the rude awakening that you’re living in a man’s world and you have to learn how to navigate it even though you’re only twelve or thirteen or fourteen.
We’re taking our time to change this world, and as much as I’d like to say things will be different soon, that’s a promise I can’t make. What I can tell you though is that after you take the time to learn the hard lessons, you become a woman who relearns how to be a girl: You find a job that isn’t about what you wear, you realize how much you have to offer and that the people who matter realize it too, you get excited to fall in love because you know how to do it the right way, and you remember how to look forward to the little things and get excited to paint your nails at the kitchen table.