Letters To The Revolution: Dear First-Grade Girls
Dear first-grade girls of Brookline, Massachusetts (and everywhere):
You have the right to say who and what you are. The right belongs to you alone. No one can take it from you. But on a near-daily basis, other people — often boys and men — will try.
I thought we could put off this conversation for a while, but it’s clear that there’s no time to waste.
It begins at your age, or earlier, and the labels feel innocuous: that girl is shy. That one is bossy. That one is mean. That one is nice. A few years later, the vocabulary shifts: that girl is weird. That girl is ugly. That girl is smart. That girl is funny. The judgment sits heavily now, because you know these words, and can recognize the nuances of expression and tone that accompany them.
Then, a little later — well, here is what happened to me: I grew five inches and four bra-cup sizes when I was in eighth grade, and men started telling me who I was. As I was walking home from school, they’d tell me I was sexy, and when I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away, they’d tell me I was a bitch. They’d tell me to smile, and when my face froze in fear, they told me I was a stuck-up cunt.
(A note about those words, bitch and cunt; all they mean is female and vagina.)
Looking back on those moments, my fright and shame remain vivid. The fright, I understand; even now, hearing a rare whistle or comment, I wonder if this is it, the incident that will turn violent. But why did I feel ashamed, when they were the ones behaving badly? I knew they would be embarrassed if I told them my age, but instead of wielding that power, I hunched my shoulders and ran away.
The good news: I was lucky. I made it through safely. The bad news: I never once doubted those men, and their right to tell me what they thought of me. I doubted only myself.
First-grade girls, this is why we have to talk about this now.
The 2016 election was a celebration of women’s suffering and self-doubt. If we are going to combat that, we can’t wait until it reaches the level of sexualization and assault.
Yes, we must teach you it’s wrong to grab someone by the pussy (just another word for vagina, by the way), but we should start by teaching you it’s also wrong to grab someone by the ponytail.
Yes, we must teach you to question and deflect when someone calls you a slut, but we must also teach you to question and deflect when someone calls you silly.
Reject it. Begin now. Practice each day, so that even when you do doubt yourself — as all human beings, men and women, do — you remember that your doubt does not legitimize their judgment.
You have the right to say who and what you are. No one else does. Repeat it to yourself until you know it in your heart. Use it when someone tries to take it away.
With love,
Jessica
#LettersToTheRev
You have the right to say who and what you are. The right belongs to you alone. No one can take it from you. But on a near-daily basis, other people — often boys and men — will try.
I thought we could put off this conversation for a while, but it’s clear that there’s no time to waste.
It begins at your age, or earlier, and the labels feel innocuous: that girl is shy. That one is bossy. That one is mean. That one is nice. A few years later, the vocabulary shifts: that girl is weird. That girl is ugly. That girl is smart. That girl is funny. The judgment sits heavily now, because you know these words, and can recognize the nuances of expression and tone that accompany them.
Then, a little later — well, here is what happened to me: I grew five inches and four bra-cup sizes when I was in eighth grade, and men started telling me who I was. As I was walking home from school, they’d tell me I was sexy, and when I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away, they’d tell me I was a bitch. They’d tell me to smile, and when my face froze in fear, they told me I was a stuck-up cunt.
(A note about those words, bitch and cunt; all they mean is female and vagina.)
Looking back on those moments, my fright and shame remain vivid. The fright, I understand; even now, hearing a rare whistle or comment, I wonder if this is it, the incident that will turn violent. But why did I feel ashamed, when they were the ones behaving badly? I knew they would be embarrassed if I told them my age, but instead of wielding that power, I hunched my shoulders and ran away.
The good news: I was lucky. I made it through safely. The bad news: I never once doubted those men, and their right to tell me what they thought of me. I doubted only myself.
First-grade girls, this is why we have to talk about this now.
The 2016 election was a celebration of women’s suffering and self-doubt. If we are going to combat that, we can’t wait until it reaches the level of sexualization and assault.
Yes, we must teach you it’s wrong to grab someone by the pussy (just another word for vagina, by the way), but we should start by teaching you it’s also wrong to grab someone by the ponytail.
Yes, we must teach you to question and deflect when someone calls you a slut, but we must also teach you to question and deflect when someone calls you silly.
Reject it. Begin now. Practice each day, so that even when you do doubt yourself — as all human beings, men and women, do — you remember that your doubt does not legitimize their judgment.
You have the right to say who and what you are. No one else does. Repeat it to yourself until you know it in your heart. Use it when someone tries to take it away.
With love,
Jessica
#LettersToTheRev
