I stood alone. An obvious, yet invisible line separated us. Across from me stood four pairs of skeptical eyes, waiting for any sign of mistake. I felt their eyes crawl across me. They scoffed at the idea that I could be “one of them.” The wind whisked through my hair and flounced across my freckled face. Their taunts rang in my head.
Though my stomach braided itself into a thousand knots, I attempted to hide my fear. To them, fear was weakness. Fear would prove that I lacked the strength to be like them. Despite my fear, I was determined to pass the test which would give me entrance into their exclusive club. All I had to do was stand still and refrain from flinching.
My skin was tough, but my will was tougher. Nothing—not even an acorn—could penetrate my desire to be welcomed and respected. Bracing myself, I stood a little bit taller. On three, a massive acorn catapulted toward my quivering body.
The acorn reached my skin, collided with my willpower, and dropped into the wood chips below. Their jaws dropped like a crazed football fan upon seeing an intersected pass at the goal line. A new member had just been added to their club—a girl.
Admittance into this exclusive club was exactly what I thought I needed to be a person of strength. I thought being “one of the guys” was the key to acceptance as an equal—someone who was just as good as boys, or better.
Like all good parents, my mom and dad were committed to introducing their children to a variety of activities which gave my siblings and me the opportunity to discover where our deepest passions and gifts could be expressed. In second grade, my parents signed me up for my first sports team. Ever since that first Shooting Stars soccer practice, my parents and I realized that I had been introduced to a lifelong love of sports. I would never shy away from a sports game—even if I was the only girl in attendance.
My love for sports grew with each passing year. It became a form of self-expression; an identifier of self-worth. I did whatever it took to let the way I played sports speak for me rather than my gender.
Unfortunately, I thought that if I wanted boys to respect my athleticism, I had to be just like them. I didn’t want to be a boy, but I wanted to be like a boy. I requested others to call me Chris rather than Christina. I rejected girlish pastimes like nail painting, playing with dolls, and dressing up. By age ten, I proudly proclaimed my defiance against dresses. Though Mom claimed I would learn to appreciate dresses one day, I vowed never to do so.
Sadly, there were times where dress-wearing was necessary. I had to wear a skirt (and an awkward corset) when I was in the Sound of Music. Years of piano recitals required me to dress up in something nice. And I’ll never forget my cousin’s wedding where I was asked to be a junior bridesmaid.
At eleven, getting fitted for a dress was horribly uncomfortable and just plain awkward. I had to stand still for what seemed like hours in order to get the correct measurements. The dress was form fitting and flowed to my feet. On the day of the wedding, I did not want to be seen in that dress. Nonetheless, I complied out of love for my cousin.
At the wedding, I tried to forget about the dress, the heeled sandals, the perfectly curled hair, and the light makeup for the majority of the wedding and reception. As I walked around at the reception, however, an older woman approached me—probably a friend of my grandparents—and declared, “My, don’t you look pretty!”
My cheeks turned to a deep red which nearly matched the chrimsony-red of my dress. I was embarrassed. I did not want someone to consider me pretty because pretty was girly and girly was weakness.
It wasn’t until the end of eighth grade that I willingly wore a dress again. To be honest, I cannot recall exactly what switched in my mind. But I do remember that as I matured and grew as a young woman, I began to understand that I could be strong and still accept my femininity. I did not have to tirelessly try to be like a boy. I was a strong, confident, beautiful, determined, smart, able-bodied individual. None of these characteristics, I slowly realized, were based on my gender, but on the person I am. Strong is not a gender specific word; rather, it is individual-specific word. I can be strong, confident, and a woman.
My childhood and adolescent experience helped me realize that my gender does not determine who I am. Gender is just one part of my identity. Even though I am a woman, I can do things for myself. Even though I am a woman, I can be tough. Even though I am a woman, I can play sports and be better than guys.
So, rather than dressing like a boy or trying to imitate boyish behavior, I have decided to be me. And because I decide to be me, I decide to be strong. I use my competitive spirit and spirited determination to do my best and be the best. I play sports and live to my own rhythm. I don’t “play like a girl.” I play like me. Whether decorated in a beautifully embroidered gown or doused in dirt and sweat, I remain a strong, beautiful woman, and I am happy to be just that.
