I'm a Girl
by Jamilah King

My first rude introduction to the world of femininity was at a bus stop when I was thirteen years old. I was an eighth grader in the spring of 1999, a year that was ravaged by relentless El Nino storms. I stood at a crowded bus stop, as rain beat down onto the tops of umbrellas with a ferocity that I had grown accustomed to over the past months. As I patiently waited for the ever-slow 43 Masonic to arrive, someone grabbed my attention. I peered underneath my umbrella and looked at the small Asian woman who stood smiling on the other side. Speaking to me with her eyes, she politely asked if she could share my umbrella. Without giving it a second thought, I agreed, and for the next several minutes the two of us stood there, shielding ourselves from the harsh realities of Mother Nature. Soon our bus arrived, and after roaring to a stop, the large crowd of people began their fight to board. As I was about to let my umbrella down, the woman turned to me and said, smiling, "Thank you." After a moment, she looked at me with a veiled curiosity in her eye and examined me head to toe -I was wearing baggy blue jeans and a large red jacket with the hood pulled over my head. Still smiling, she politely asked, "Are you a girl or a boy?"

I am not sure how I responded to her rude inquiry, or even if I did, but the question stay trapped in my ears through my ears for days. Throughout middle school I had been known as a tomboy, and I often dressed in baggy clothes. Many of my female friends had already gotten the message. As eighth graders, we stood on the fringe of high school, and one by one they traded in their jeans and t-shirts for skirts and halter tops. It took that chance encounter at the bus stop for me to finally get the message.

And so it was, once I got my next allowance, I gathered up a group of my female friends and went shopping. For the first time in my life, I painfully turned away from the boys section in the department store and took the first of many trips over to the juniors section. Hideous bright-colored skirts and shirts nearly blinded my eyes. The sight of the tight-fitting flare jeans that hung on a rack next to their matching tank tops made my legs quiver. I stood there, dazed, confused, as my friends rummaged through the racks of horrid clothing looking for something suitable for me to wear. Whereas I saw this as the end of a joyful existence, they smiled and giggled, ecstatic at the fact that I had finally come over to their side. Indeed, they took great pride in making me their personal dress-up doll.

The next morning, I walked into school painfully flaunting my new style. The flare, hipster jeans I wore stuck to my legs, and I feared that my circulation was in danger of being cut off and I would eventually have to have my legs amputated. I wore a small, tight-fitting tank top, hidden beneath a blue windbreaker as my last shred of dignity. I sat with the other girls, watching the boys play basketball before the first bell of the day rang. I yearned to be out on the court, running, jumping and falling with the rest of my friends, yet I sat there with the girls, insecurity clinging to my body. A friend turned to me, noticing how unusually quiet I had become. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked. Then she looked me over, and loudly exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! You look so cute ! You're finally dressing like a girl!" I simply nodded and turned my attention back the basketball game.

She stood, still looking at me, amazed: "Let me see your shirt."

"What?" I asked, "Why?" Fear began to well up in my chest.

"Come on, why are you hiding under that jacket?"

By now, I had the attention of everyone at the table. "Fine", I said, as I began to pull off my jacket. The tiny tank top clung to my body showing the outline of my breasts. Everyone stood there, almost amazed. I had finally become one of the girls.

I was not alone in my quest for femininity. It is this quest for acceptance that drives millions of young teenage girls to eating disorders. Although my case was not nearly as drastic not physically devastating, I, similar to girls with anorexia or bulimia, was attempting to purge myself of the masculine features that kept me trapped within the margins of unattractiveness.

Slowly, my ambivalence toward the societal notion of femininity began to melt away, as I traded sports wristbands for bracelets, and my attire of tight-fitting jeans, tank tops, and skirts began to grow. By the time I entered high school, I had turned into a fashion beast. In my junior year, approximately three years after my encounter with the woman at the bus stop, I walked the halls sporting pink skirts, tank top, and matching pink and white Puma tennis shoes. I had indeed become my own skirt-wearing, pink-loving, strawberry-smelling nightmare.

As my transition to the world of "femininity" continued, I subtly acted out my indifference to the status quo. I was still an athlete, and during game days I usually wore school sweats and a lettermen's jacket. Nonetheless, I did so with my hair carefully groomed, eyebrows plucked, and smelling of the latest body spray from Bed, Bath and beyond. Even now I try to act out my indifference by making subtle compromises: refusing to wear skirts on scorching hot days, ditching my jeans for fitted sweatpants, and wearing my hair in sloppy pony tails. I have always refused to wear make up. However, even the staunchest act of indifference is accompanied by a purse. When strangers approach me asking for the time or for directions, I answer them in the most polite, high-pitched voice I can manage.

I do this, of course, in a meager attempt at forging an identity that will never again be mistaken. Every morning, as I rummage through my closet in search of what to wear, I hear the faint echo of the woman's voice at the bus stop. Her question emanates through my body, as my fingertips pass over the baggy jeans and sweatshirts that cry out for my attention. I go back to that day, at that bus stop, underneath the umbrella that shielded me from the harsh realities of the world. As the bus pulls up to the bus stop, and I begin to let down my umbrella, the woman turns to me. "Thank you" she says, and just as she's about to turn to board the bus, she turns back to me and says, "You're a beautiful girl."

Jamilah King will be a sophomore in fall 2004 at Pitzer College, where she is majoring in both Psychology and English. She is a graduate of the International Studies Academy in her native San Francisco . This reflection was written as an assignment for a course titled The Writing Process.