We were the girls
with murky and mucky skirts and scrapped knees who would set their sights on
achieving every sport they played. We were the girls who would not reticent
aside to be impudent and audacious towards adults who were not subtle to the people
we loved. We played with barbies, and dolls because that was what they bought
for us. We made our barbies stampede to their birthday celebration, and also
made our cars metamorphosed with jet fuel for our counterspy barbie, and made
them confront their tormentor, fight off the nasty guys, which they never
lost.
“They are aiming for
the majority audiences”, we were told, “and what is wrong with having a male
lead?”
Nothing is fallacious
with having a male lead, but what is wrong is that somehow every great spy,
every successful CEO, and every courageous prominent leader is a male. Who am I
supposed to look up to for motivation? Am I not capable of leading? Do I not
get to have a good role model? Am I not supposed to aim high?
Because the movies
sure say so.
We were the
adolescent girls who were taught about the bad gaze even before we were taught
algebra; we were told to agonize silently because women inherently are better
at handling pain. We were told to never show our vexation because girls never
get angry, they are presumed to be tender, soft, polite, docile, and
well-mannered. We were never excused if we screamed loud; we were taught to be
the kind ones, the one who would let their sibling’s blunders slide; the one
who was asked to eat in moderation, not for obesity that is menacing but
because who will marry you if you become fat. We were the only ones who were
pushed to learn the household chores and cooking not to make us independent but
because who else will do them when we get married. We were told not to play
violent games; we were asked to dress feminine but even then, we were asked to
make sure our skirts cover our knees, and the neckline to not fall low.
We were high school
girls who were worried and insecure because no boy had ever told us we are
pretty. We were angry and afraid to walk alone because men would slow down
beside us to spew comments on our bodies. We were told to dress up but were
sent home because our shorts were too short. We were told to be pretty and
happy, but the scale on our weigh machine should remain small. We were
terrified of dying alone because, at 18, we haven’t had our first kiss. We lied
about self-love and cried at night about our fat thighs.
“Are you a
feminist?”, we were accused, “stop watching such shows, feminism is crap,
you’ll never get a boyfriend if you are a feminist.” We were told to be
feminine, but not feminist.
And so we grew into
tired adults, we have our lights dimmed to fit in, and our passion was squeezed
out of us in our teens. We never raise our voices, and we are rebuked if we do.
We have grown so used to feeling afraid, but still, we wonder why we have to
live in such fear. We are never credited but are expected to work hard and do
most of the work. Where they are promoted for having a family, we are told to
go back home. We are sick of being the mature ones in every argument, it’s
getting tiring to explain and explain all the time until our tongues fall limp.
We are exhausted from seeing people form a judgment about us without knowing
who we are, and then see them act on them.
"When are you
planning to get married?”, they ask us in interviews. They are already thinking
of replacing us, making a list of why we shouldn’t be selected. Well, at least
we knew why the panel had no women.
Rejection became so
common, we didn’t think twice before denying ourselves something we wanted in
the name of something else. We ate less, slowly decreased our appetite, had fun
with friends but never went out to eat with them anymore. We used things to fill
the hole in our gaping hearts, put make-up on our acne that we knew isn’t
right, wore clothes that’ll hide our love handles, heels our feet would bleed
in, bags that’ll carry our baggage, and coffee that might make us feel
something. We made all of it up.
We impulse-bought the
stuff on sale, posted pictures of the 2% of our lives we were happily smiling,
hid our messy hair and our silly faces, covered our back fat or just any part
we thought was ugly with oversized clothes, made videos when we felt pretty and
cried about how ugly we are the next hour, sketched and dreamed of fashion -
all with pockets deep enough to bury our hands in. And we made sure to
not post on our socials too often and too much, for girls are bound to be
judged if they love themselves or if they don’t.
Can you see the
hypocrisy?
Can you see how the
world is forcing us to be pretty on the outside but suffocate and die on the
inside?
Can you see the
selfishness?
Can you see our
cracks?
Can you hear our
desperate wails to breathe as you drown us? Or has the world turned you
ignorant?
We weren’t made for
this world, where images of us have to be photoshopped because the reality is
too ugly. Modeling half-naked is a career and the moment we post on our socials
willingly, we are hoes. Where filtered pictures are pretty, and we’re
patronized if our candid isn't aesthetic. We weren’t meant for this world,
where we are allowed to have sex but we are told to not like it too much.
We created entire
stories about how the main characters in our favorite universes were secretly
girls in disguise. We made characters who were 18-year-old girls, who would
slice throats and break the necks of anyone who hurt them. We sketched pictures
of women in full metal armor and full-length pants. We wrote crappy poetry
about people we loved, the ones we envied, and the ones we admired.
Because the world
wasn’t kind, we made one up. We had our barbie be the badass villain and the
kind hero. We gave her a cape and made her everything we ever hoped to be. We
wrote barely-understandable fan fiction about werewolves and vampires who were
all terribly in love with us - we were the leads here. We were perfect in this
world.
Incredibly written and very well versed. Loved it👍
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