'Boys Will Be Boys': A Narrative on the Female Condition

When I was younger, I never gave much attention to what it meant to be a woman. This was not because I considered it unimportant; rather, I never had to give it any thought. Because my two greatest friends were always rough and tumble boys, I never had to think about what femininity meant to me until much later in life. They respected me because I was better than them in so many respects, and they treated me like any other boy their age. My sister and I were inseparable as children, and our mothers often discovered us snatching slithering creatures from the woods or building forts in the trees in an attempt to keep them as pets. As long as I've known them, they've maintained their honorable, gentlemanly demeanor. To put it another way, I was fortunate enough to grow up in a world where gender divisions were almost nonexistent. Women were always held in high esteem throughout my life, and I was confident that this was true for all males. Other than being hyperaware of my surroundings, I never worried about over-covering myself. Throughout my childhood and early adolescence, I lived by the conviction that men and women should be treated equally and with utmost respect. It wasn't until the summer before my freshman year in high school, however, that I realized my naive assumptions about what it meant to be a strong, courageous woman had been proven incorrect.

When my friends and I went on a mission trip to a poor Kentucky hamlet, everything changed. For many years, we had visited the camp for low-income children, and it had been a safe haven for us. We felt safe and would often go out in the afternoons after our work at the camp was done for the day. The small town was familiar to us. Six of us (all girls) agreed to go outside the camp building for a photo op one day. Some of us began to notice a large truck that had circled the property too many times for our liking. We had no reason to suspect anything was wrong because we were still on the property. In the meantime, the same large truck came barreling into the parking lot and slammed into us. Two men approached us and started making sexual comments about our physique while simultaneously catcalling us. My pals and I went around the building and found a door open, a door that was meant to be closed, and slammed it shut with our hands. Because of our good fortune, we now believe that we may have been saved from certain death. We instantly alerted the cops, but by that time the two males had already roared again out of the parking lot.

The experience itself was frightening, but it wasn't until a day later that I completely realized what was going on. On that year's mission trip, we were joined by a new counselor, and we told her our story, still afraid as we were. Her immediate reaction was to inform us that it had to be our fault; either our clothing were too suggestive or we had done something else to cause it. It's not like she said, "Guys are going to be boys." She proceeded to let us know that it was crucial to be conscious of how we, as young women, needed to dress to keep men from lusting after our bodies, and that we absolutely could not trust any man in our lives totally. Despite the fact that my friends and I were in middle school at the time of the occurrence, her words had a devastating effect on us. I returned from that trip with a new understanding of what it means to be a woman. The injustice of it all made my blood boil. I wondered how many women were like that unhelpful camp counselor, scared to leave the house for fear of what a male would say or do when he saw them. What gave men the right to tell me how I should spend my life when I grew up believing that we were all equals? For a long time after that incident, I struggled to come to terms with my identity as a woman. Changing my definition to fit the environment I was living in was not a straightforward task, and it took a long time.

My courage returned after a period of time, however. Especially in this day and age, I believe it is critical for women to have the confidence to stand up to a society that at times seems to be unfair. My conception of what it means to be a woman remains intact. In fact, my life experiences have taught me exactly what it is to be a woman: not shrinking in front of anyone, being compassionate to oneself and others, and standing firm with other women on this issue. It is asserting my individuality without regard to how others might see me as a result. When I think back on it, I believe the complete opposite of what that mean-spirited camp counselor told me all those years ago. Many guys in our world are decent and honorable, and while I should keep an eye out for those who aren't, I shouldn't let that knowledge affect my actions. Being a "real woman" is still an evolving concept for me, and I expect that it will continue to evolve for many years to come. In any case, I'm confident that it means guarding people who are vulnerable and those I care about emotionally intelligently, awarely, and kindly. Being a woman means realizing that one's quiet strength may be just as effective as one's loud strength, and that voicing one's mind and raising one's voice are both necessary. You must see me as an equal and expect others to treat you that way as well. Finally, being a woman means accepting the fact that I am a formidable force in the world, and I must treat myself accordingly.