I’ve known since I was very little that I would be sexualized my entire life. No one needed to tell me, although my mother- her eyes not yet open to just how much influence the patriarchy had on every moment of our lives as women, her wrists and shoulders not yet feeling the weight of her invisible chains- instilled the fear of God in me from the moment she knew I understood her words. I already felt it simmering just under my skin, my blood so cold and yet so hot in my veins. I very quickly developed a hyperawareness of my body and of the men around it. I knew which uncles were just sweet, and which uncles’ sweetness could not hide the layer of rot beneath. I knew that if I dropped something around them, I should not pick it up. If I was placed in their lap I squirmed and cried and made myself as unappealing as possible until they put me down. I was still in diapers when it started.
There was something about me even then, although I would have no name for it until much later. All it did as a child was confuse me. But what didn’t confuse me was the feeling that came in full force with it: shame. There has never been a time in human history when girls were not taught to feel shame from the moment they took their first breath. I wasn’t just feeling my own shame, I felt the shame of all the women who came before me at a cellular level. What was wrong with me that made men look at me that way? I was so little- I have always looked young for my age. My mom still dressed me up like a little doll, carefully placing ribbons in my thick dark hair. My hair has always been one of my favorite things about me- long and healthy, soft like a kitten*.
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Once when I was in kindergarten, my mother and I were going down on an escalator in the mall when a strange woman behind us stuck both her hands in my hair without any warning. I jumped out of my skin; my mother was ready to knock her on her ass and almost did. “I’m so sorry, she just has such beautiful hair I couldn’t help it!” was her excuse. As if that was supposed to justify touching a little girl you don’t know without her consent.
I was deemed a thoughtful and precocious child, who would rather sit in a corner and silently read her books than engage in conversation. The sign of a gifted mind, they said. But I knew what my true gift was: manipulation. Already I was so good at making everyone, even the adults, in my life see exactly what I wanted them to see. I didn’t want to talk, to laugh, to make eye contact. When I spoke, or laughed, they always looked. I didn’t want to draw their eyes, and I didn’t want to see what was in them when they did. Reading allowed me to keep my head down and escape into realms where I could cast spells and ride dragons and slay villains with a magic sword. They never stopped looking, but they left me alone. That was what I really wanted.
And the more I was left alone, the more I realized I liked being alone. As long as I had books, and music, and somewhere nearby with soft green grass, I had a rich life. I had a huge imagination and a fascination with fantasy that allowed me to construct a perfect world just for me and no one else. Ironically enough, as I grew up and began interacting with more boys my own age against my will, the whimsical aura that comes with true emotional independence shone through my skin like a warm flame lighting up the darkness, and I could feel the almost instinctual pull they had toward it- toward me. And just like moths, it almost seemed like they couldn’t help it even if they tried (which they never did). It still feels that way. Like a tether waiting for the lightest tug from me to send them careening into my orbit. I fucking hate it. No that’s not right, I thank the Goddess for such a beautiful gift. I fucking hate men.
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