CW: Some references to sexual based violence
Despite his faults, I still wanted my father’s approval. I wanted to prove to him that not all women were weak and vulnerable and needed protecting. He was the first person to entertain the idea that I wasn’t just a girl and praised me for keeping up with the boys when I kicked the footy, and lifted heavy things. I wanted to keep proving that. It took me a long time to discover weakness was not an innate feminine trait and reverse the misogyny that was drilled into me.
According to my father, I was the way I was (read: big fat queer) because of the lack of male role models in my life. As if I was living on an island with Wonder Woman and all her super buff friends and was never exposed to men. Men had actually been modelling what it meant to be a male my whole life. In every home I lived in, men took what they wanted, when they wanted it. They took advantage of everyone I was suppose to protect and there was nothing I could do about it. Oh I had male role models alright. There were distinct advantages of being male, and I wanted in. I didn’t really understand until later, just how deep those advantages went.
You see I learnt how to be a man so well growing up, men left me alone. I didn’t need to protect myself from men because they treated me like one of them. I got me some sweet male privilege. I got the privilege of not being harassed in the schoolyard by boys just being boys. I got the privilege of not been made to feel uncomfortable in my own home or work by men who thought they had a right to my body. I was fortunate that men didn’t start calling me a slut from age twelve and taunt me about my sexual partners. I was lucky, men didn’t feel they couldn’t control their urges around me . I stood by and watched every other young girl or women around me fall victim to men's sense of entitlement. No one was safe, except me. It may not be all men, but it certainly seems to be most women.
In some sad sick twist, instead of embracing a life free of sexual objectification and abuse, I internalised it. I decided there must have been something wrong with me. I did not desire, nor was I desired by men. What did that mean? I must be unattractive. I must not appeal to anyone. Who would be interested in someone that looks like me?
Plagued by constant questions about boyfriends and glossy magazines barking tips about how to look hot, I felt the push to be desirable. Problem was I didn’t know how to feel attractive if I wasn’t presenting feminine, so I just assumed I wasn’t attractive. No one in those glossy magazines ever looked like me. Anyone who looked remotely like me, any butch or androgynous character on TV were usually playing some sort of juvenile delinquent or prisoner.
Sometimes the odd musician would break out of the gender stereotype and would immediately be awarded godlike status. No Doubt “Just a Girl” was my anthem and I watched Gwen Stefani in her military pants doing push ups until my eyes bled. But even she could slip back into femininity like a summer dress and all my representation was gone. By mid puberty I had come to terms with the fact that I was simply untouchable because of how I looked and acted.
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