Troubled Girl

I was raised deep in the Appalachian mountains, a small podunk town that mostly had more trees than people and churches than stores. A place where fun consisted of driving late in the evening to nowhere in particular while you listened to music and ate Dairy Queen with whatever person was in the mood to join you.

If you were brave enough to drive a few miles down the road you’d come across a billboard that read “Heaven or Hell?” as if you were trying to decide what kind of Froyo flavor you were feeling.

We didn’t talk about it much at school. Not outright at least. There were always teachers who would play gospel music while we worked, and every holiday season you could find a Christmas tree in the school lobby. Small things, but all a reminder that if you weren’t a Christian you were different. As though that were the default when you popped out into this world.

Being the overthinking and critical kid I was, God and I never particularly got along. I always found myself turning my nose up when someone reminded me that girls shouldn’t cut their hair. Girls shouldn’t wear pants. Girls shouldn’t wear makeup. Girls shouldn’t have jobs. Girls should know how to clean the house. As soon as I was old enough to understand, my family gave me this laundry list of things I wasn’t allowed to do, signed it with God's name, and told me to accept it or burn in hell.

I gathered from the experience that, all and all, I’m alive to be an incubator and to vacuum the house occasionally.

By the time I was twelve, my hair hung long and frizzy down to my back. My dad always lovingly called it my rats nest and I could never argue with him. I hated it and it showed in my lack of confidence. I had an awkward disposition and was far from good at talking to people. It’s easy to say that by the time Middle School came around I didn’t have many friends.

They were the worst years of my life, but they left me branded with the label of “more trouble than I’m worth” by many people. Like I was a stray dog who was just too sensitive to put the money and time into. Something you could easily drop off at the shelter and say “it’s your problem now.”

The beginning of this ‘rebellious’ streak started with a small, but impactful, event. It was the end of the day and I was amped up to go home, mostly so I could watch Youtube and forget the world existed. I was in Social Studies and the bell had just rung when the sound of feedback came from the teacher turning his microphone back on as we began to pack up our things.

“Can the girls stay back and help clean up the room please?” He said, quickly turning off his mic again because it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t up for debate. So I watched as the boys joked and laughed as they left, making their way out the door.

It was something I’d always known, but it all crashed down on me at once, a wave building over twelve years of my life. Their time was just worth more than mine. I had never seen a boy get dress coded, or ask to stay in class longer to sweep the floors. It was simple. My time and education just didn’t hold a candle to theirs.

And so people will say that feminism lies in overzealous college students and I’m here to tell you that’s ignorant because that’s when the bitterness and rage started, almost seven years ago. A middle school girl realizing she is not as important as the boy who sits next to her.

This idea was solidified in me at thirteen at a school dance.

I’d cut my hair down to my shoulders, smiling in my sequined rainbow dress as I twirled in front of the mirror. I spent the night with my best friend, dancing and drinking sodas. I socialized more that night than I had the entire year. It was nearing the end of the dance when I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder.

I turned around in surprise, shocked to see my P.E teacher who I hadn’t seen the entire night. She seemed agitated, and she pulled me to the side away from the music and other kids quickly.

“Have you seen Douglas?” She asked, and the question threw me for a loop because I had hardly known him. He was a friend of a friend's boyfriend and I hadn’t seen him all night.

“No, why?” I insisted, but she only seemed irritated as she left me standing alone. I locked eyes with a girl I’d known in elementary school, though we rarely talked, and was surprised when she hurried over to me.

“Did you hear what happened?” She interrogated quickly, her voice frantic. The noise of the room seemed to drown out as I focused on her. I shook my head quickly, and she leaned in closer. “Douglas molested a girl in the girl's bathroom.” She explained quickly, and my mouth dropped open in shock.

It wasn’t something I had considered happening, not by another student. Or at all.

“They can’t find him anywhere. A few other girls and I are looking.” She said, motioning towards a few people throughout the room who were scanning the crowd. I spent the rest of my time that night looking high and low for him, even outside in the bushes under the darkness of night.

Eventually, my teacher pulled us aside, angry at us for ‘causing a spectacle’. He told us to forget it. They’d handle it.

We saw him in math class the next day. He won a raffle at Christmas, and an academic award the next week.

The next year he slammed a girl's face into the concrete. Radio silence again. He was invincible in the worst kind of way, and I hold enough white-hot rage for him to this day to burn that school down to the dirt it’s built on.

At fourteen I cut my hair again, leaving a few strands on top and dying them a soft shade of pink. I fell in love with the color, becoming obsessed with looking in the mirror if only to see the gentle carnation color.

I was expelled the next day, pulled out of band class, and tossed off campus with barely a call to my parents. I received a letter in the mail a week later, detailing to me how they’d take me to court if I ever stepped foot on their grounds again due to my ‘out of control behavior.’

I’m not sure what it takes to be a troubled boy, but I learned that day what it means to be a troubled girl.

To be a troubled girl means to dress how you’d like. To stand up for your friends when no one else cares to. To be a troubled girl means to shamelessly be yourself because confidence in young girls is the most terrifying thing of all.

I laid awake that night, reading over the pink slip they’d given me, giggling to myself into the early hours of the morning.