It’s interesting to me that the recent discourse surrounding girlhood has focused mostly on its commodification as an aesthetic. The ubiquity of bows, coquettecore, the designs of Sandy Liang and Simone Rocha making their way into the mainstream. Most of the essays I’ve read argue that it’s a reaction to the plight of women in the 21st century, that women are choosing to self-infantalize as a way to return to a time when things were simpler, when they weren’t saddled with rent, jobs, the messiness of adult relationships, etc.,—when they could just be girls. A coping mechanism for these post-pandemic, late-stage capitalist, climate-in-crisis times.
In an essay titled “The Year of the Girl” in The Cut, Isabel Cristo writes, “In 2023, the only way to have fun, it seemed, was by turning away from adult womanhood wholesale and toward a breezy, bright alternative.” Except characterizing girlhood as a bright and breezy time, to me, feels dishonest at best and incredibly reductive at worst. Because if you really believed that, to quote The Virgin Suicides, “obviously, [doctor,] you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.”
In Melissa Febos’s collection of essays on this fraught time, aptly titled Girlhood, she writes about the social ramifications of her changing body and how it was weaponized against her. In an essay titled The Mirror Test, she recounts a pool party thrown by her friend Vicki. Self-conscious about her newly developed breasts, she keeps her t-shirt on in the pool, but Vicki isn’t having it. “You can’t play with a T-shirt on,” Vicki tells her. Febos relents and pulls her shirt off with her eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the reaction.
“No one said anything. They didn’t have to. If I had hoped that it might be seen as luck—me in possession of that thing they all wanted, most of all Vicki—then my hope sank before my shirt hit the concrete. They stared at my zippered swimsuit. No, they stared at my body, and in those scorching moments—the blue water turned flame—I knew that there are some people we love for having the things we don’t, and some people we hate for the same reason.
Though I spent hours staring in the mirror at that age, I hadn’t yet learned how to see my own changed body. That afternoon I glimpsed her, a glimmering double that others could also see, that was the only thing they could see of me.
It would be another year before Alex would spit in my face, before Vicki or anyone would call me a slut, or threaten me, or prank-call my home, but by the time it happened, I already knew who they meant.”
I can trace most of my issues with body image and self-confidence back to the ages of 12 and 13. I don’t like to sit too long with those memories because of the feelings they bring up. But lately, I’ve been revisiting them more and more. The fact that those memories still make me wince tells me there’s a lot I still need to work through and unpack. I look back on photos of me as a 12-year-old girl and feel a protectiveness that makes my heart hurt.
Like Febos, I felt a disconnect with my body—that ‘glimmering double’ she refers to, that ‘was the only thing they could see of me.’ I remember feeling betrayed by it; how it made me visible in ways I wasn’t prepared for, and how, seemingly overnight, I went from a body that was neutral, shapeless, that could go unnoticed, to one that was to be observed, remarked upon, assessed, groped.
I was 12 when I got my period and grew breasts that I tried to squeeze into ill-fitting bras so that they’d look smaller. I remember fantasizing about one day getting a breast reduction. That same year, while walking around the mall with my mom, I remember locking eyes with a man who, while holding my gaze, ran his tongue suggestively over his upper and bottom lips. I looked away and pretended nothing happened. That was also the year when, sometimes, I’d wake up on the bus to school and there’d be someone else’s hands on my chest. Bleary-eyed and disoriented, I’d look at the boys beside me, who’d quickly avert their gaze and fold their hands into their laps.
I was also 12 when I joined the girls football team. I had no real interest in sports. They required a degree of assertiveness that I wouldn’t say came naturally to me, but I saw it as a way to keep up with the other girls in my friend group, all of whom had joined the team the year before. Football was very much a cool girl sport in my school.
At one of the first practices I’d attended, we had to play against the boys team. I'd been dreading it since I first heard we’d have to. Despite my initial nervousness, I ended up surprising myself. I remember letting my feet take over and thinking, in the midst of it all, how much better I was than I thought I’d be. I even managed to score a couple goals. Midway through the scrimmage, I heard the boys’ coach yell from the sidelines, “watch out for that one,” while pointing at me. I remember feeling powerful for the first time in my life but also being afraid of that power. I’m not a threat, I thought, I don’t even know what I’m doing.
But whatever potential I may have demonstrated that day never really materialized into much more than a few good games. By the time seventh grade rolled around, I’d mostly been relegated to the bench. So what happened during the first day of practice after summer felt like the final nail in the coffin of an already fizzling out ‘football career.’
I’d spent most of the summer loafing around the house watching TV or at the beach with family friends. I hadn’t trained in months and knew practice was going to be a slog. True enough, the first thing our coach made us do was run laps around the gymnasium for 30 minutes. In the early June humidity, it was especially punishing.
A group of guys from my class were sitting in the bleachers, right smack in the middle, giving us no choice but to run past them on every lap. Every time I’d get near them, they’d pretend the earth was shaking, like I was so heavy, I was causing an earthquake. Lap after lap, they’d repeat the joke. Sometimes they’d laugh about how out of breath I was or talk about how my boobs looked when I ran. It was the longest 30 minutes of my adolescent life. I quit the team shortly after that.
I hate the word ‘bully’ and the images it conjures. The big guy versus the little guy. The reality of it is so much more insidious. The truth is, when those boys weren’t in a group, they treated me like an actual human being, like a friend even. But then some switch would flick inside of them when they got together, and suddenly my body became fodder.
When I think about girlhood, this is what comes to mind. Not the color pink, not playful innocence, not bows. I know there are different reasons for embracing this trend; I know that there’s comfort in the fantasy. But if I were to engage in it in any meaningful way, it would be to divorce girlhood from the idea that it’s this carefree and frivolous time and confront the dark truth that it can be, and is for many, a time when the harsh realities of our gender and all its implications come at us at full force, when the illusion that bad things won’t happen to you if you’re a good person shatters. But I guess that’s a lot harder to sell. Because you can’t just put a bow on trauma and call it a day.
But maybe it isn’t about trading in our lived experiences in favor of some ethereal girlish fantasy; maybe it’s about reclaiming our girlhood. Giving ourselves permission not only to indulge in our femininity unapologetically but to define it for ourselves. Maybe this is me reconnecting with the power I first felt as a 12-year-old on a football field and no longer being afraid.
To make up for my accidental three-week absence, I’ll be sending out a new culture catch-up on Wednesday (May 8) and a new recipe for Sandwich Talk next Saturday. As always, thank you for reading. 🖤
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I was feeling so confused and alienated by this trend and you hit the nail exactly on the head with this essay. Thank you for sharing 🍁
Toooo much of this was toooo familiar. Ouch. Beautifully written, as always ♥️