A Run For Their Money

I was born into a family of boys. My mother’s older sister had two boys, and the same was true for my father's brother. My second cousins, you ask? Third? Boys. All of them. When I was really young, this was fun. I was the family princess, constantly fussed over and pampered by all the women in my family who had hoped for a little girl to grace the lineage. My aunt used to take me out to get our nails done and gossip about the stupid boys and their sports. I loved it. Let it be known that I am not only the lone girl, but the youngest in the family, the baby. 

When I was young, before my family eventually split into smaller sectors, I was occasionally subject – as all of us are – to the dreaded family party. Me and my older brother would go through rounds of couples I didn’t recognize squeezing him and I on the cheeks and telling us that they “remember when we were this big,” showing off a size with their hands that seemed unnatural for even newborns. It was one family party in particular, I would say I was around six, when my true role as the only girl in the family became evident. I walked into the home – whose home I couldn’t tell you – and was immediately overstimulated. Given I didn’t know what the word overstimulated meant with my six year old vocabulary, but I knew I felt something that made my breathing speed up and my stomach feel funny. Greeted by loud overhead lights and very loud voices (welcome to my family), it was always a lot to take in. 

When you entered this home, you first walked through the kitchen, leaving the visitor to pass through the women’s palace before reaching the men sitting around the TV. There I stood on the linoleum tiles with a big pink satin bow taming my long curly hair that was identical to my mother’s. The smell of fresh matzah ball soup and crispy potato latkes filled my young nose and my stomach growled. I could hear faint chatter, and the occasional “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” from the living room, beer drunk grown men yelling at the yankees game together like some sort of ritual. These women that I didn’t know then and don’t know now turned to my brother first, telling him how “big and strong” he’s gotten (sidenote: my brother is two years older than me. He was eight, neither big nor strong). I was obviously fussed over as usual, with them fluffing my hair and pinching my chubby cheeks, but then I was told something that stuck with me. “You’re gonna give the boys a run for their money”. Being a kid, and an anxious one at that, my brain was preoccupied with the smells and sounds around me to really sit and analyze this, but I do remember thinking to myself, ‘Why just the boys? Why can’t I give everyone a run for their money?’ 

Now that I am 18 I still question the intention behind this comment, and comments like these. Was I being called pretty? Or was I being called competent? It is interesting that compliments given to young women are most commonly given in comparison to men. “You have balls”. No. Frankly, I don’t. But it’s interesting that balls are your idea of strength. I have always been what my parents consider “sassy”. I’ve had an attitude since I opened my mouth, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my first words were that of a snarky remark about the patriarchy. My mother’s favorite story to tell is one from when I was only four. I was at a playdate with kids from my neighborhood and I called Max Malowista annoying (which he was not only annoying, but plain old mean and he still is to this very day). He went to his mom crying, which led to his mom coming to me angry. “Shh listen.. we’re reaching the good part” is what my mom usually says at this point because, when I was confronted “I put my little hands on my little hips” (my mother's words) and said to Mrs. Malowista “I called your son annoying because he is annoying”. Obviously, my mother didn’t find this too amusing at the time and made me call and apologize, but I often wonder why it’s her favorite story to tell. It was commonly understood amongst my family that I wasn’t just a prissy little girl, and in reflection, this might have been the meaning behind the comment from that unnamed woman, and why this story is one my mom will never stop repeating. It was a compliment, I had the power of a man! The power to stand up to one! How flattering. 

It was because of this comment that I paid extra attention growing up to misogyny. I remember being infuriated when my elementary teachers would preach things like “Are there any strong young boys who can help me lift this?” A fascinating and intensely normalized way to engrain in the minds of young women that they are not and never will be as strong and capable as their male peers. I always asked to help and they never let me lift a finger. In middle school the dress code was introduced, a system of rules unfairly enforced on the young girls in the school hallways. If you were a boy, you wouldn’t get dress-coded for wearing a tank top that broke the “two-finger sleeve width” rule because there was nothing inherently sexual about a male’s upper torso. I encourage you to ask yourself: what was sexual about my 12-year-old shoulders and chest? Over and over I reluctantly put a sweatshirt over my cute, and entirely appropriate outfit, mad at the system I was forced to oblige with and the people who saw no issue with it. “Dress like a lady,” I was told. “You’ll distract the boys,” they said. I always wondered why what I was wearing had the power to dictate how men acted around me. I was nowhere near quiet about these concerns, and this was around the time I started being called a feminist like it was some sort of slur. I took this label with pride, with passion, and with total and utter satisfaction. 

I wrote an article for my high school newspaper where I argued that policies like school dress codes strengthen rape culture. I said there is a thin line between telling a young female student that what she wears impacts the way she is treated in school, and asking a female rape victim what she was wearing. I stopped getting dress-coded after this. 

Being the baby of the family and the lone girl forces me to squeeze myself into a mold I don’t necessarily even want to fit in. My entire family has called me Pip for as long as I can remember, to the point that my parents only call me Lexi when they’re mad at me. The nickname originated as Pippi, after Pippi Longstockings to call attention to my red hair that I occasionally wear in two braids. I’ve always liked this nickname, it felt like a term of endearment. At the last family party I went to, my family got into an argument about the death penalty. At one point I made what I thought to be a respectable counterargument for the death penalty, to which my cousins erupted in surprise. “Look at little Pip!” they exclaimed. I felt like telling them I hadn’t been “little Pip” for quite a long time, but I realized it wasn’t about me. I will always be the little girl with the potential to give the boys a run for their money, but if (and when) I actually do, my efforts will always be guffawed at. Taken as a surprise, as if I haven’t been as “big and strong” as my brother this entire time. 

As women get the rights to their reproductive systems taken away, there are men that sit in power with clouded pasts of numerous wives and forced abortions and bribes to keep said wives quiet. As women scream on the streets with signs and banners and T-shirts, there are men that sit in power counting their stacks of money, stacks that grow from the publicity that pained women give them. When people hear the word “loud,” usually they think negative and obnoxious, but I think that’s naive. I believe as a young woman growing up in a society where there remain people who ignore the prevalence of misogyny and blatant sexism that refuse to budge, being loud is the only option left. Being loud in my confidence, being loud when standing up for myself, and being loud in everything I do, is the most important thing. Female flourishing is impossible when women continue to be trapped in silence. 

A series of compromises categorize my very existence. Historically, women are meant to be pure, meant to be quaint, clean, sweet, perfect, and especially, silent. We’re supposed to happily accept our fate of cleaning, cooking, and caring.  It’s frowned upon to stir the pot metaphorically, but stirring a pot physically is seen as our main purpose; feed the kids and the husband, keep the house tidy and your mouth shut. Maintain a safe haven for everyone in your life, except your own mind. Women are stepping stones for powerful men to trample over on their way to the top, to be used and thrown aside after our purpose is through. When a woman is told to be more feminine, instinctively she will sit up taller to appease the eyes of men and grow quiet and timid to appease their ears. “Feminine” isn’t what they mean to ask for, what they want is submission, and I refuse to submit. So, no, I’m not going to give the boys a run for their money. I’m going to make the whole system run for its life.